IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


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1.0     ^1^  1^ 

ut  1^   12.2 


m 


m  III  1.4 


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CIHiVI/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions 


Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


1980 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notes  techniques  et  bibiiographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
original  copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this 
copy  which  may  be  bibliographically  unique, 
which  may  alter  any  of  the  images  in  the 
reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


□    Coloured  covers/  .  . 

Couverture  de  couleur 

□    Covers  damaged/ 
Couverture  endommagde 

□   Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaurte  et/ou  peiiicuiie 

□   Cover  title  missing/ 
Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 

□    Coloured  maps/ 
Cartes  g6ographiques  en  couleur 

□    Coloured  init  (i.e.  other  than  blue  oi  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 

□    Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 
Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 


D 
D 


D 


Bound  with  other  material/ 
Reli6  avec  d'autres  documents 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

La  reliure  serrde  peut  causer  de  I'orriiire  ou  de  la 
distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  int6rieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajout6es 
lors  d'une  restauration  apparaissent  dans  le  texte, 
mais,  lorsque  cela  6tait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  6t6  filmdes. 


L'Institut  a  microfilm^  le  meilleur  exemplaire 
qu'il  lui  a  4t6  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details 
de  cet  exemplaire  qui  sont  peut-dtre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  mithode  normale  de  filmage 
sont  indiquis  ci-dessous. 


I      I   Coloured  pages/ 


Pages  de  couleur 

Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommagies 

Pages  restored  and/o( 

Pages  restaur6es  et/ou  peliicuiies 

Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxe( 
Pages  dicoiories,  tacheties  ou  piqudes 

Pages  detached/ 
Pages  d^tachdes 

Showthrough/ 
Transparence 

Quality  of  prir 

Quality  in6gale  de  I'impression 

Includes  supplementary  materii 
Comprend  du  materiel  suppldmentaire 


I      I  Pages  damaged/ 

I      I  Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 

r~~l  Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 

I      I  Pages  detached/ 

I      I  Showthrough/ 

I      I  Quality  of  print  varies/ 

r~|  Includes  supplementary  material/ 


D 
D 


Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Edition  disponible 

Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totaiement  ou  partiellement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  6t6  film6es  d  nouveau  de  fagon  d 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


V 


Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  suppl6mentaires: 


Because  of  condition  o7  book,  half  title  hat  not  been  filmed. 


0This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  retio  checked  below/ 
Ce  document  est  film6  au  taux  de  reduction  indiqu*  ci-dessous. 


10X 


14X 


18X 

rzf 


22X 


26X 


30X 


12X 


16X 


20X 


24X 


2BX 


32X 


The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

Douglas  Library 
Queen's  University 


L'exempiaire  filmt  f ut  reproduit  grAce  A  la 
ginArosit*  de: 

Douglas  Library 
Queen's  University 


The  images  appearing  here  ere  the  best  quality 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


Les  images  suivantes  ont  Ati  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin.  compte  tenu  de  le  condition  et 
de  la  nettet*  de  l'exempiaire  film«,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 

Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprimte  sont  filmte  en  commenpant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
dernlAre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  salon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  film6s  en  commenpant  par  la 
premiere  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  derniire  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  — ^>  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  y  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  ar  'lies. 


Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparattra  sur  la 
derniire  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  —»>  signifie  "A  SUIVRE  ",  le 
symbols  V  signifie  "FIN". 


Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  dtre 
filmte  A  des  taux  de  reduction  diff^rents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  Atre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clichA,  11  est  filmA  A  partir 
de  I'angle  supArieur  geuche,  de  gauche  A  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'imeges  nAcesseire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mAthode. 


1 

2 

3 

1        «        • 

[■  ■  ,  ■  i  •  ■     .    .■■  ^  •      . 

4  5  6 


< 


n 

'ill 


•  I       |»ip^— i"W»w^^»^p^^~ 


What  Necessity  Knows 


BY 

L.   DOUGALL 

Author  of  "  Beggars  All,"  ktc. 


>J^o 


NEW  YORK 
LONGMANS,    GREEN,    AND    CO. 

IS    EAST    SIXTEENTH    STREET 
1893 


Copyright,  1898, 
By  L.  DOUGALL. 


L 

Cop ,  % 


Typographv  by  J.  S.  Gushing  &  Co.,  Bostok. 


JOHN    REDPATH    DOUGALL 

THIS  BOOK  IS  INSCRIBED 
WITH  REVERENCE  AND  AFFECTION 


1 1 0729 


■W"    i^    ■  f  • 


..V 


PREFACE. 


One  episode  of  this  story  may  need  a  word  of  explana- 
tion. It  is  reported  that  while  the  "  Millerite  "  or  Advent- 
ist  excitement  of  1843  was  agitating  certain  parts  of  North 
Ameri(ni,  in  one  place  at  least  a  little  band  of  white-robed 
I)eople  ascended  a  hill  in  sure  expectation  of  the  Second 
Advent,  and  patiently  returned  to  be  the  laughing  stock  of 
their  neighbours.  This  tradition,  as  I  heard  it  in  my 
childhood,  was  repeated  as  if  it  embodied  notliing  but 
eccentricity  and  absurdity,  yet  it  naturally  struck  a  child's 
miud  with  peculiar  feelings  of  awe  and  pathos.  Such  an 
event  api)eared  picturesque  matter  for  a  story.  It  was  not 
easy  to  deal  with;  for  in  setting  it,  as  was  necessary,  in 
close  relation  to  the  gain-getting,  marrying  and  giving  in 
marriage,  of  the  people  among  whom  it  might  occur,  it  was 
difficult  to  avoid  either  giving  it  a  poetic  emphasis  which  it 
Avould  not  appear  to  have  in  reality  or  degrading  it  by  that 
superficial  truth  often  called  realism,  which  belittles  men. 
Any  unworthiness   in  the  working  out  of  the  incident  is 


vii 


viii 


PREFACE. 


due,  not  so  much  to  lack  of  dignity  in  the  subject,  or  to 
hick  of  nuitcrial,  as  to  the  limitations  of  the  writer's 
capacity. 

Lest  any  of  my  countrymen  should  feel  tliat  this  story  is 
wanting  in  sympatliy  with  them,  I  may  j)oint  out  tiiat  it 
does  not  haj)pen  to  deal  witli  Canadians  proper,  but  with 
immigrants,  most  of  whom  are  slow  to  identify  themselves 
with  their  adopted  country;  hence  their  point  of  view  is 
here  necessarily  set  forth. 

I  would  take  this  opportunity  to  express  my  obligation 
to  my  fellow-worker.  Miss  ]\I.  S.  Earp,  for  her  constant 
and  sympathetic  criticism  and  help  in  composition. 

L.  D. 

Edinburgh,  June,  1893. 


subject,  or  to 
the   writer's 

t  til  is  story  is 
't  out  that  it 
ptT,  hut  with 
y  tliuiiiselves 
it  of  view  is 


ij  obligation 
l»er  constant 
:iou. 

L.  D. 


BOOK  I. 


"Necessity  knows  no  LavoP 


\ 


f 


WHAT  NECESSITY   KNOWS. 


CJIArTEU   I. 


INTKODUCTION. 


"It  is  not  ofton  tliat  wliat  we  call  tlio  'great  sorrows  of 
litVi '  causo  lis  tlie  greatest  sorrow.  Death,  acute  disease, 
sudden  and  great  losses — these  are  sonuitinies  easily  borne 
compared  witli  those  intricate  ditiiculties  wliich,  without 
name  and  without  appearauce,  work  themselves  into  the 
web  of  our  daily  life,  and,  if  not  rightly  met,  corrode  and 
tarnish  all  its  brightness." 

So  spoke  Robert  Trculiolme,  Principal  of  the  New  College 
and  Hector  of  the  English  church  at  Chellaston,  in  the 
I'rovinoe  of  Quebec.  He  sat  in  his  comfortable  library. 
The  light  of  a  centre  lamp  glowed  with  shaded  ray  on  books 
in  their  shelves,  but  shone  sti-ongly  on  the  faces  near  it. 
As  Trenholme  spoke  his  words  had  all  the  charm  lent  by 
modulated  voice  and  manner,  and  a  face  that,  though  strong, 
could  light  itself  easily  with  a  winning  smile.  He  Avas  a 
tall,  rather  muscular  man;  his  face  had  that  look  of  battle 
that  indicates  the  nervous  temperament.  He  was  talking 
to  a  member  of  his  congregation  who  had  called  to  ask 
advice  and  sympathy  concerning  some  carking  domestic 
care.  The  advice  had  already  been  given,  and  the  clergy- 
man proceeded  to  give  the  sympathy  in  the  form  above. 

His  listener  was  a  sickly-looking  man,  who  held  by  the 
hand  a  little  boy  of  live  or  six  years.     The  child,  pale  and 

3 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  I 


,1 


sober,  iT'garded  with  incessant  interest  the  prosperous  and 
energetic  man  wlio  was  talking  to  its  father. 

"Yes,  yes,"  replied  the  troubled  visitor,  "yes,  there's 
some  help  for  the  big  troubles,  but  none  for  the  small — 
you're  right  there." 

"No,"  said  the  other,  "1  did  not  say  there  was  no  help. 
It  is  just  those  complex  difficulties  for  which  we  feel  the 
help  of  our  fellow-men  is  inadequate  that  ought  to  teach  us 
to  find  out  how  adequate  is  the  help  of  the  Divine  Man, 
our  Saviour,  to  all  our  needs." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  the  poor  man  again,  "  yes,  I  suppose  what 
you  say  is  true." 

But  he  evidently  did  not  suppose  so.  He  sidled  to  the 
door,  cap  in  hand.  The  clergyman  said  no  more.  He  was 
one  of  those  sensitive  men  who  often  know  instinctively 
whether  or  not  their  words  find  response  in  the  heart  of  the 
hearer,  and  to  whom  it  is  always  a  pain  to  siiy  anything,  even 
the  most  trivial,  which  awakes  no  feeling  common  to  both. 

Trenholme  himself  showed  the  visitors  out  of  his  house 
with  a  genial,  kindly  manner,  and  when  the  departing  foot- 
steps had  ceased  to  crunch  the  garden  path  he  still  stood  on 
his  verandah,  looking  after  the  retreating  figures  and  feel- 
ing somewhat  depressed — not  as  we  might  suppose  St.  Paul 
would  have  felt  depressed,  had  he,  in  like  manner,  taken 
the  Name  for  which  he  lived  upon  his  lips  in  vain — and  to 
render  that  name  futile  by  reason  of  our  spiritual  insignifi- 
cance is  surely  the  worst  form  of  profanity — but  he  felt 
depressed  in  the  way  that  a  gentleman  might  who,  having 
various  interests  at  heart,  had  failed  in  a  slight  attempt 
to  promote  one  of  them. 

It  was  the  evening  of  one  of  the  balmy  days  of  a  late 
Indian  summer.  The  stars  of  the  Canadian  sky  had  faded 
and  become  invisible  in  the  light  of  a  moon  that  hung  low 
and  glorious,  giving  light  to  the  dr}?,  sweet-scented  haze  of 
autumn  air.  T)-enholme  looked  out  on  a  neat  garden  plot, 
and  beyond,  in  the  same  enclosure,  upon  lawns  of  ragged, 
dry-looking  grass,  in  the  centre  of  which  stood  an  ugly 


CHAP.  l] 


WHAT  NEC  ESS /TV  KNOllS 


\\\)t 


ate 
led 
ow 
of 
ot, 

3(1, 


brick  liouse,  built  apparently  for  some  public  purpose. 
This  was  the  iniiuediate  outlook.  Around,  tlie  land  was 
un(hilatins^;  trees  were  abundant,  and  were  more  apparent 
in  the  moonliglit  than  the  flat  field  spaces  between  them. 
The  graceful  lines  of  leatiess  elms  at  the  side  of  the  main 
road  were  ch^arly  seen.  About  half  a  mile  away  the  liglits 
of  a  large  vilhige  were  visible,  but  bits  of  walls  ;ind  gable 
ends  of  white  houses  stood  out  brighter  in  tlu^  moonlight 
than  the  yellow  lights  within  the  windows.  Where  the 
houses  stret(!hed  themselves  up  on  a  low  hill,  a  little  white 
chur(!h  showed  clear  against  the  broken  shadow  of  low- 
growing  pines. 

As  Trenholme  was  surveying  the  place  dreamily  in  the 
wonderful  light,  that  light  fell  also  upon  him  and  his  habi- 
tation. He  was  ai)i)arently  intellectual,  and  had  in  him 
something  of  the  idealist.  For  the  rest,  lu;  was  a  good- 
sized,  good-looking  man,  between  thirty  and  forty  years  of 
age,  and  even  by  the  moonlight  one  might  see,  from  the  form 
of  his  clothes,  that  he  was  dressed  with  fastidious  care. 
The  walls  and  verandah  of  his  house,  which  were  of  wood, 
glistened  almost  as  brightly  with  white  paint  as  the  knocker 
and  doorplate  did  with  brass  lacquer. 

After  a  few  minutes,  Trenholme's  housekeeper,  a  wiry, 
sad-eyed  woman,  came  to  see  why  the  door  was  left  open. 
"When  she  saw  the  master  of  the  house  she  retired  in  abru[)t, 
angular  fashion,  but  the  suggestion  of  her  errand  recalled 
him  from  his  brief  relaxation. 

In  his  study  he  again  sat  down  before  the  table  where  he 
had  been  talking  to  his  visitors.  From  the  leaves  of  his 
blotting-paper  he  took  a  letter  which  he  had  apparently  been 
interrupted  in  writing.  He  took  it  out  in  a  quick,  business- 
like way,  and  dipped  his  pen  in  the  ink  as  though  to  finish 
rapidly;  but  then  he  sat  still  until  the  pen  dried,  and  no 
further  word  had  been  added.  Again  he  dipped  his  pen, 
and  again  let  it  dry.  If  the  first  sentence  of  the  letter  had 
taken  as  long  to  compose  as  the  second,  it  was  no  wonder 
that  a  caller  had  caused  an  interruption. 


IVHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  I 


The  letter,  as  it  lay  before  liim,  had  about  a  third  of  its 
page  written  in  a  neat,  forcible  hand.  The  arms  of  his 
young  college  were  printed  at  the  top.     He  had  written : — 

My  dear  brother, — I  am  very  much  concerned  not  to  have  heard 
from  you  for  so  long,  I  have  written  to  your  old  address  in  Montreal, 
but  received  no  answer. 

Here  came  the  stop.  At  last  he  put  pen  to  j)aper  and 
went  on : — 

Even  though  we  have  disagreed  as  to  what  occupation  is  best  for 
you  to  follow,  and  also  as  to  the  degree  of  reserve  that  is  desirable 
as  to  what  our  father  did,  you  nuist  surely  know  that  there  is  nothing 
I  desire  more  than  your  highest  welfare. 

After  looking  at  this  sentence  for  a  little  while  he  struck 
his  pen  through  tlie  word  "highest,"  and  tlien,  offended 
with  tlie  appearance  of  tlie  obliteration,  he  copied  this  much 
of  tlie  letter  on  a  fresh  sheet  and  again  stopped. 

When  he  continued,  it  was  on  tlie  old  slieet.  He  made  a 
rough  copy  of  the  letter — writing,  crossing  out,  and  rewrit- 
ing. It  seemed  that  the  task  to  which  he  had  set  himself 
was  almost  harder  than  could  appear  possible,  for,  as  lie 
became  more  absorbed  in  it,  there  was  evidence  of  discom- 
fort in  his  attitude,  and  although  the  room  was  not  warm, 
the  moisture  on  his  forehead  became  visilde  in  the  strong 
light  of  the  lamp  above  him.  At  length,  after  preliminary 
pauses  had  been  followed  by  a  lengthened  period  of  vigor- 
ous writing,  the  letter  was  copied,  and  the  writer  sealed  it 
with  an  air  of  obvious  relief. 

That  done,  he  wrote  another  letter,  the  composition  of 
which,  although  it  engaged  his  care,  was  apparently  so  much 
pleasanter,  that  perhaps  the  doing  of  it  was  chosen  on  the 
same  principle  as  one  hears  a  farce  after  a  tragedy,  in  order 
to  sleep  the  more  easily. 

This  second  letter  was  to  a  lady.  When  it  was  written, 
Trenholme  pulled  an  album  from  a  private  drawer,  and 
looked  long  and  with  interested  attention  at  the  face  of  the 


CHAI  .  l] 


ll'HAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


lady  to  whom  lie  had  written.  Tt  was  the  face  of  a  young, 
handsome  girl,  who  bore  herself  proudly.  The  fashion  of 
the  dress  would  have  suggested  to  a  caloulating  mind  that 
the  portrait  liad  been  taken  some  years  before;  but  what 
man  who  imagines  himself  a  lover,  in  regarding  the  face  of 
the  absent  dear  one  in  the  well-known  picture,  adds  in 
thought  the  marks  of  time?  If  he  had  been  impartial  he 
would  have  asked  the  portrait  if  the  face  from  which  it  was 
tak(Ui  had  grown  more  proud  and  cold  as  the  years  went 
by,  or  more  sad  and  gentle — for,  surely,  in  this  work-a-day 
world  of  ours,  fate  would  not  be  likely  to  have  gifts  in 
store  that  would  wholly  satisfy  those  eager,  ambitious  eyes; 
but,  being  a  man  no  wiser  than  many  other  men,  he  looked 
at  the  rather  faded  photograph  with  considerable  pleasure, 
and  asked  no  questions. 

It  grew  late  as  he  contemplated  the  lady's  picture,  and, 
moreover,  he  was  not  one,  under  any  excuse,  to  spend  much 
time  in  idleness.  He  ^jut  away  his  album,  and  then,  having 
personally  locked  up  his  house  and  said  good-night  to  his 
housekeeper,  he  went  upstairs. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  all  that  Trenholme's  pleasure  in  the  letter 
and  the  possession  of  the  photograph  might  betoken,  the 
missive,  addressed  to  a  lady  named  Miss  liexford,  was  not 
a  love-letter.     It  ran  thus : — 


I  cannot  even  feign  anger  against  "Dame  Fortune,"  that,  by  so 
unexpected  a  turn  of  her  wheel,  she  should  be  even. now  bringing  you 
to  the  remote  village  where  for  some  time  I  have  been  forced  to  make 
my  home,  and  where  it  is  very  probable  I  shall  remain  for  some  years 
longer.  I  do,  of  course,  unfeignedly  regret  the  financial  misfortune 
which,  as  I  understand,  has  made  it  necessary  for  Captain  Rexford 
to  bring  you  all  out  to  this  young  country  ;  yet  to  me  the  pleasure  of 
expecting  such  neighbours  must  far  exceed  any  other  feeling  with 
which  I  regard  your  advent. 

I  am  exceedingly  glad  if  I  have  been  able  to  be  of  service  to  Cap- 
tain Kexford  in  making  his  business  arrangements  here,  and  hope  all 
will  prove  satisfactory.  I  have  only  to  add  that,  although  you  must 
be  prepared  for  nuich  that  you  will  find  different  from  English  life, 
much  that  is  rough  and  ungainly  and  uncomfortable,  you  may  feel 


8 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[hook  I 


confident  that,  with  a  little  patience,  the  worst  roughness  of  colonial 
life  will  soon  be  overconu',  and  that  you  will  find  compensation  a 
thousand  times  over  in  the  ghn-ious  climate  and  cheerful  prospects 
of  this  new  land. 

As  I  have  never  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  Captain  and  Mrs. 
Rcxford,  I  trust  you  will  excuse  me  for  addressing  this  note  of  wel- 
come to  you,  whom  I  trust  I  may  still  look  upon  as  a  friend.  I  have 
not  forgotten  the  winter  when  I  received  encouragement  .and  counsel 
from  you,  who  had  so  many  to  admire  and  occupy  you  that,  looking 
back  now,  I  feel  it  strange  that  you  should  have  found  time  to  bestow 
in  mere  kindness. 

Here  there  followed  courteous  salutatious  to  the  lady's 
father  and  mother,  brothers  and  sisters.  The  letter  was 
signed  in  friendly  style  and  addressed  to  an  hotel  in  Hali- 
fax, where  apparently  it  was  to  await  the  arrival  of  the 
fair  stranger  from  some  other  shore. 

It  is  probable  that,  in  tlie  intorlacings  of  human  lives, 
events  are  hajjpening  every  moment  which,  although  bearing 
according  to  present  knowledge  no  possible  relation  to  our 
own  lives,  are  yet  to  have  an  influence  on  our  future  and 
make  havoc  witli  our  expectations.  The  train  is  laid,  the 
fuse  is  lit,  long  before  we  know  it. 

That  niglit,  as  Kobert  Trenholme  sealed  his  letters,  an 
event  took  place  that  Avas  to  test  by  a  strange  intiuence  the 
lives  of  these  three  people — llobert  Trenholme,  the  lady  of 
whom  he  thought  so  pleasantly,  and  the  young  brother  to 
whom  he  had  written  so  laboriously.  And  the  event  was 
that  an  old  settler,  wdio  dwelt  in  a  remote  part  of  the  coun- 
try, went  out  of  his  cabin  in  the  delusive  moonlight,  slipped 
on  a  steep  place,  and  fell,  thereby  receiving  an  inward  hurt 
that  was  to  bring  him  death. 


CHAPTER  II 


The  Indian  summer,  that  lingers  in  the  Canadian  forest 
after  the  fall  of  the  leaves,  had  passed  away.  The  earth  lay 
frozen,  ready  to  bear  the  snow.     The  rivers,  with  edge  of 


CHAP.  Il] 


in  LIT  NEC  ESS/TV  K'JVOU'S 


thin  ice  upon  their  quiet  places,  rolled,  gatliering  into  the 
surfiuic  of  their  waters  the  cold  that  would  so  soon  create 
their  crystal  prison. 

Tlie  bright  sun  of  a  late  November  day  was  shining  upon 
a  snial)  hike  that  lay  in  the  h^nely  region  to  the  west  of  the 
(raspe  Peninsula  near  tlie  JVIatapediac  Valley.  There  was 
one  farm  clearing  on  a  sl()[»e  of  the  wild  hills  tliat  encircled 
tlie  lake.  The  place  was  very  lonely.  An  eagle  that  rose 
from  the  lir-clad  ridge  above  the  clearing  might  from  its 
eminence,  have  seen  other  human  habitations,  but  such  siglit 
was  denied  to  the  dwellers  in  the  rude  log-house  on  the 
clearing.  The  eagle  wheeled  in  the  air  and  flew  southward. 
A  girl  standing  near  the  log-house  watched  it  with  discon- 
tented eyes. 

The  blue  \v  ater  of  the  lake,  with  ceaseless  lapping,  cast 
up  glinting  reflections  of  the  cold  sunlight.  JJown  the 
liillside  a  stream  ran  to  join  the  lake,  and  it  was  on  the 
more  sheltered  slope  by  this  stream,  where  grey-limbed 
maple  trees  grew,  that  the  cabin  stood.  Above  and  around, 
the  steeper  slopes  bore  only  flr  trees,  whose  cone-shaped  or 
spiky  forms,  sometimes  burnt  and  charred,  sometimes  dead 
and  grey,  but  for  the  most  part  green  and  glossy,  from  shore 
and  slope  and  ridge  pointed  always  to  the  blue  zenith. 

Tlie  log-house,  with  its  rougher  sheds,  was  hard  by  the 
stream's  ravine.  About  the  other  sides  of  it  stretched  a  few 
acres  of  tilled  land.  Hound  this  land  the  maple  wood 
closed,  and  under  its  grey  trees  there  was  a  tawny  brown 
carpet  of  fallen  leaves  from  which  the  brighter  autumn 
colours  had  already  faded.  Up  the  hillside  in  the  fir  wood 
there  were  gaps  where  the  trees  had  been  felled  for  lumber, 
and  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  house  a  rudely  built 
lumber  slide  descended  to  the  lake. 

It  was  about  an  hour  before  sundown  when  the  eagle  had 
risen  and  fled,  and  the  sunset  light  found  the  girl  who  had 
watched  it  still  standing  in  the  same  place.  All  that  time 
a  man  had  been  talking  to  her;  but  she  herself  had  not  been 
talking,  she  had  given  him  little  reply.     The  two  were  not 


lO 


IVHAT  NECESSirV  KNOWS 


[hook  I 


oloso  to  tlio  lioiiso;  largo,  squaro-built  ])iles  of  lo{,'s,  sawn 
and  s|)lit  for  Avi liter  fncl,  separated  them  from  it.  The  man 
leaned  aj^'ainst  tlie  wood  now  j  the  girl  stood  upright,  leaning 
on  nothing. 

Her  face,  wliich  was  healthy,  was  at  the  same  time  pale. 
Her  hair  was  very  red,  and  she  had  much  of  it.  She  was  a 
large,  strong  young  woman.  She  looked  larger  and  stronger 
than  tlie  man  with  whom  she  was  conversing.  He  was  a 
thin,  liaggard  fellow,  not  at  first  noticeable  in  the  landscape, 
for  his  clothes  and  beard  were  faded  and  worn  into  colours 
of  earth  and  wood,  so  that  Nature  seemed  to  have  dealt  with 
him  as  she  deals  witli  her  most  defenceless  creatures,  caus- 
ing them  to  grow  so  like  their  surroundings  that  even  their 
enemies  do  not  easily  observe  them.  This  man.  however, 
was  not  lacking  in  a  certain  wiry  physical  sti  -iigth,  nor  in 
power  of  thought  or  of  will.  And  these  latter  powers,  if 
the  girl  possessed  them,  were  as  yet  only  latent  in  her,  for 
she  had  tlie  heavy  and  undeveloped  appearance  of  backward 
youth. 

The  man  was  speaking  earnestly.     At  last  he  said : — 

"Come  now,  Sissy,  be  a  good  lassie  and  say  that  ye're 
content  to  stay.  Ye've  always  been  a  good  lassie  and  done 
what  I  told  ye  before." 

His  accent  was  Scotch,  but  not  the  broad  Scotch  of  an 
entirely  uneducated  man.  There  was  sobriety  written  in 
the  traits  of  his  face,  and  more — a  certain  quality  of  intel- 
lectual virtue  of  the  higher  stamp.  He  was  not  young,  but 
he  was  not  yet  old. 

"I  haven't,"  said  the  girl  sullenly. 

He  sighed  at  her  perverseness.  "  That's  not  the  way  I 
remember  it.  I'm  sure,  from  the  time  ye  were  quite  a  wee 
one,  ye  have  always  tried  to  please  me.  We  all  come  short 
sometimes;  the  thing  is,  what  we  are  trying  to  do." 

He  spoke  as  if  her  antagonism  to  what  he  had  been 
saying,  to  what  he  was  yet  saying,  had  had  a  painful  effect 
upon  him  which  he  was  endeavouring  to  hide. 

The  girl  looked  over  his  head  at  the  smoke  that  was 


CHAP.  Il] 


IVIIAT  NECESSITY  KiVOlVS 


II 


en 

iCt 

as 


proceeding  from  tlio  log-house  eliinuiey.  Slie  saw  it  curl 
and  wreathe  itself  against  the  cold  blue  east.  It  was  white 
wood  smoke,  and  as  she  watched  it  began  to  turn  yellow  in 
the  liglit  from  the  sunset.  She  did  not  turn  to  see  whence 
the  yellow  ray  came. 

"Now  that  father's  dead,  I  won't  stay  here,  Mr.  Bates." 
Slie  said  "  I  won't "  just  as  a  sullen,  naughty  girl  would 
speak.  "  'Twas  hateful  enough  to  stay  while  he  lived,  but 
now  you  and  Miss  Bates  are  nothing  to  me." 

"Nothing  to  ye.  Sissy? "  The  words  seemed  to  come  out 
of  him  in  pained  surprise. 

"  I  know  you've  brouglit  me  up,  and  taught  me,  and  been 
far  kinder  to  me  than  father  ever  was;  but  I'm  not  to  stay 
here  all  my  life  because  of  that." 

"  Bairn,  I  have  just  been  telling  ye  there  is  nothing  else 
ye  can  do  just  now.  I  have  no  ready  money.  Your  father 
]iad  nothing  to  leave  ye  but  his  share  of  this  place;  and, 
so  far,  we've  just  got  along  year  by  year,  and  tiiat's  all. 
I'll  work  it  as  well  as  I  can,  and,  if  ye  like,  ye're  welcome 
to  live  free  and  lay  by  your  share  year  by  year  till  ye  have 
something  to  take  with  ye  and  are  old  enough  to  go  away. 
But  if  ye  go  off  now  ye'll  have  to  live  as  a  servant,  and  ye 
couldn't  thole  that,  and  I  couldn't  for  ye.  Ye  have  no  one 
to  protect  ye  now  but  me.  I've  no  friends  to  send  ye  to. 
What  do  ye  know  of  the  world?  It's  unkind — ay,  and  it's 
wicked  too." 

"How's  it  so  wicked?  You're  not  wicked,  nor  father, 
nor  me,  nor  the  men — how's  people  outside  so  much 
wickeder?" 

Bates's  mouth — it  was  a  rather  broad,  powerful  mouth — 
began  to  grow  hard  at  her  continued  contention,  perhaps 
also  at  the  thought  of  the  evils  of  which  he  dreamed.  "  It's 
a  very  evil  world,"  he  said,  just  as  he  would  have  safd  that 
two  and  two  made  four  to  a  child  who  had  dared  to  question 
that  fact.  "  Ye're  too  young  to  understand  it  now :  ye  must 
take  my  word  for  it." 

She  made  no  sort  of  answer;  she  gave  no  sign  of  yield- 


la 


WHAT  NECIiSS/TV  KNOll'S 


[book  r 


iiig;  but,  because  she  liad  made  no  answer,  he,  self-wiUed 
and  0{)inion.ited  man  that  he  was,  felt  assured  that  she  liad 
no  an.iwer  to  give,  and  went  on  to  talk  as  if  that  one  point 
were  settled. 

"Ye  can  be  happy  here  if  ye  will  only  think  so.  If  we 
seem  liard  on  ye  in  the  house  about  the  meals  and  that,  I'll 
try  to  be  better  tempered.  Ye  haven't  read  all  the  books 
we  have  yet,  but  I'll  get  more  the  first  chance  if  ye  like. 
Come,  Sissy,  tliink  how  lonesome  I'd  be  without  ye!  " 

He  moved  his  shoulders  nervously  while  he  spoke,  as  if 
the  effort  to  coax  was  a  greater  strain  than  the  effort  to  teach 
or  command.  His  manner  might  have  been  that  of  a  father 
who  wheedled  a  child  to  do  right,  or  a  lover  who  sued  on 
his  own  behalf;  the  better  love,  for  that  matter,  is  much  the 
same  in  all  relations  of  life. 

This  last  plea  evidently  moved  her  just  a  little.  "  I'm 
sorry,  Mr.  Bates,"  she  said. 

"  What  are  ye  sorry  for.  Sissy?" 

"That  I'm  to  leave  you." 

"But  ye're  not  going.  Can't  ye  get  that  out  of  your 
head?     How  will  ye  go?  " 

"In  the  boat,  when  they  take  father." 

At  that  the  first  flash  of  anger  came  from  him.  "Ye 
won't  go,  if  I  have  to  hold  ye  by  main  force.  I  can't  go  to 
bury  your  father.  I  have  to  stay  here  and  earn  bread  and 
butter  for  you  and  me,  or  we'll  come  short  of  it.  If  ye 
think  I'm  going  to  let  ye  go  with  a  man  I  know  little 
about " 

His  voice  broke  off  in  indignation,  and  as  for  the  girl, 
whether  from  sudden  anger  at  being  thus  spoken  to,  or  from 
the  conviction  of  disappointment  which  had  been  slowly 
forcing  itself  upon  her,  she  began  to  cry.  His  anger  van- 
ished^ leaving  an  evident  discomfort  behind.  He  stood 
before  her  with  a  weary  look  of  effort  on  his  face,  as  if  he 
were  casting  all  things  in  heaven  and  earth  about  in  his 
mind  to  find  which  of  them  would  be  most  likely  to  afford 
her  comfort,  or  at  least,  to  put  an  end  to  tears  which,  per- 


CHAP.  II] 


WHAT  jv/ic/iss/ry  Awoirs 


•3 


'ly 


r- 


iKips  for  a  reason  unknown  to  himself,  gave  him  excessive 
auao^'anee. 

"Come.  Sissy" — feebly — "give  over." 

But  the  girl  went  on  crying,  not  loudly  or  passionately, 
but  with  no  sign  of  discontinuance,  as  she  stood  tliere,  large 
and  miserable,  before  him.  lie  f-ettled  his  shoulders  obsti- 
nately against  the  wood  j)ile,  thinking  to  wait  till  she  should 
speak  or  make  some  further  sign.  Nothing  but  strength  t)f 
will  kept  him  in  his  place,  for  he  woidd  gladly  have  fled 
from  her.  He  had  now  less  guidance  than  before  to  what 
was  i)assing  in  her  mind,  for  her  face  was  more  hidden  from 
his  sight  as  the  light  of  the  sinking  sun  focussed  more 
exclusively  in  the  Holds  of  western  sky  behind  her. 

Then  the  sun  went  down  behind  the  rugged  hills  of  the 
lake's  other  shore;  and,  as  it  sank  below  their  sharp  out- 
lines, their  sides,  which  had  been  clear  and  green,  became 
dim  and  purple;  the  blue  went  out  of  the  waters  of  the 
lake,  they  became  the  hue  of  steel  touched  with  iridescence 
of  gold;  and  above  the  hills,  vajjour  that  had  before  been 
almost  invisible  in  the  sky,  now  hung  in  upright  layers  of 
purple  mist,  blossoming  into  primrose  yellow  on  the  lower 
edges.  A  few  moments  more  and  grey  bloom,  such  as  one 
sees  on  purple  fruit,  was  on  these  vast  hangings  of  cloud 
that  grouped  themselves  more  largely,  and  gold  flames 
burned  on  their  fringes.  Behind  them  there  were  great 
empty  reaches  of  lambent  blue,  and  on  the  sharp  edge  of 
the  shadowed  hills  there  was  a  line  of  fire. 

It  produced  in  Bates  unthinking  irritation  that  Nature 
should  quietly  go  on  outspreading  her  evening  magniticence 
in  face  of  his  discomfort.  In  ordinary  light  or  darkness 
one  accepts  the  annoyances  of  life  as  coming  all  in  the  day's 
work;  but  Nature  has  her  sublime  moments  in  which,  if  the 
sensitive  mind  may  not  yield  itself  to  her  delight,  it  is 
forced  into  extreme  antagonism,  either  to  her  or  to  that 
which  withholds  from  joining  in  her  ecstasy.  Bates  was  a 
man  sensitive  to  many  forces,  the  response  to  which  within 
him  was   not  openly  acknowledged  to  himself.     He  was 


14 


WHAT  XECKss/ry  Kxoirs 


[IJOOK  I 


familiiir  with  tho  inaccnitirunice  of  sunsets  in  this  iv^noii,  l)iit 
his  mind  was  not  diiHod  to  the  niarvtd  of  the  colourod  glory 
in  wliioh  tlui  daylii,dit  so  often  eulniinated. 

He  h)ok(Ml  off  at  the  western  sky,  at  first  ohiefly  eonseious 
of  the  uniiap})y  girl  who  stood  in  front  of  him  and  irritated 
by  tliat  intcu'vening  shape;  but,  as  liis  vision  wandered 
ahmg  tlu;  vast  reac'lies  of  illimitabh»  clouds  and  the  glorious 
gulfs  of  sky,  liis  mind  yi(dded  itself  tlie  rather  to  the  beauty 
and  light.  iVlore  dusky  grew  the  pur[)l(^  of  the  uppcu* 
mists  wiiose  u})right  layers,  like  league-long  wings  of  softest 
feaiher  held  edge  downward  to  the  earth,  ever  changed  in 
forni  without  api)arent  movement.  More  sparkling  glowed 
the  gold  upon  their  edges.  The  sky  beneath  the  cloud  was 
now  like  emerald.  The  soft  darkness  of  iiurjde  slate  was  on 
the  hills.  The  lake  took  on  a  darker  shade,  and  daylight 
began  to  fade  from  the  upper  blue. 

It  was  only  perhaps  a  monu^nt — one  of  those  moments 
for  which  time  has  no  measurement — that  the  soul  of  this 
man  had  gone  out  of  him,  as  it  were,  into  the  vastness  of  the 
sunset;  and  when  he  recalled  it  his  situation  took  on  for 
him  a  somewhat  different  aspect.  He  experienced  some- 
thing of  that  temporary  relief  from  personal  responsibility 
that  moments  of  religious  sentiment  often  give  to  minds 
that  are  unaccustomed  to  religion.  He  had  been  free  for 
the  time  to  disj)ort  himself  in  something  infinitely  larger 
and  wider  than  his  little  world,  and  he  took  up  his  duty  at 
the  point  at  which  he  liad  left  it  with  something  of  this 
sense  of  freedom  lingering  with  him. 

He  was  a  good  man — that  is,  a  man  whose  face  would 
have  made  it  clear  to  any  true  observer  that  he  habitually 
did  the  right  in  contradistinction  to  the  wrong.  He  was, 
moreover,  religious,  and  would  not  have  been  likely  to  fall 
into  any  delusion  of  mere  sentiment  in  the  region  of  re- 
ligious emotion.  But  that  which  deludes  a  man  commonly 
comes  through  a  safe  channel.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the 
excitement  which  the  delight  of  the  eye  had  produced  in 
him  was  a  perfectly  wholesome  feeling,  but  the  largeness  of 
heart  it  gave  him  at  that  moment  was  unfortunate. 


CHAl'.  Ilj 


liJ/AT  ATLChSS/ri'  A'jvoirs 


'5 


The  girl  stood  just  as  before,  unj^Miiily  .'lud  witliout  powi'r 
«tl"  expression  because  muleveloped,  but  excitation  of  thought 
made  what  slie  niiglit  become  ai)[)arent  to  him  in  that  wliieh 
h\u'  was.  lie  became  more  generous  towards  lier,  more 
loving. 

"Don't  greet,  that's  a  good  lassie,"  he  said  soothingly. 
''There's  truth  in  what  ye  have  said — that  it's  dull  for  ye 
here  because  ye  have  nothing  to  look  ahead  to.  Widl,  I'll 
tell  ye  what  I  didn't  mean  to  tell  ye  while  ye  are  so  young 
— whenye're  older,  if  ye're  a  good  lassie  and  go  on  learning 
your  lessons  as  ye  have  been  doing,  I  will  ask  ye  to  marry 
me,  and  then  (we  hope  of  course  to  get  more  beforehand  wi' 
money  as  years  go)  ye  will  have  mor(^  interest  and " 

"Marry!  "  interrupted  the  girl,  not  strongly,  but  sj)eaking 
in  faint  wonder,  as  if  echoing  a  word  she  did  not  quite 
understand. 

"Yes,"  he  went  on  with  great  kindliness,  "I  talked  it 
over  with  your  father  before  he  went,  and  he  was  pleased.  I 
told  him  that,  in  a  year  or  two,  if  he  liked  it,  I  would  marry 
ye — it's  only  if  ye  like,  of  course;  and  ye'd  better  not  think 
about  it  now,  for  ye're  too  young." 

"  IVIarry  me !  "  This  time  the  exclamation  came  from  her 
with  a  force  that  was  appalling  to  him.  The  coarse  hand- 
kerchief which  she  had  been  holding  to  her  eyes  was  with- 
drawn, and  with  lips  and  eyes  open  she  exclaimed  again: 
"  Marry  me !     You  !  " 

It  was  remarkable  how  this  man,  who  so  far  was  using, 
and  through  long  years  had  always  used,  only  the  tone  of 
mentor,  now  suddenly  began  to  try  to  justify  himself  with 
almost  childlike  timidity. 

"  Your  father  and  I  didn't  know  of  any  one  else  here- 
abouts that  would  suit,  and  of  course  we  knew  ye  would 
naturally  be  disappointed  if  ye  didn't  marry."  He  went  on 
muttering  various  things  about  the  convenience  of  such  an 
arrangement. 

She  listened  to  nothing  more  than  his  first  sentence,  and 
began  to  move  away  from  him  slowly  a  few  steps  backwards : 


0 


i6 


in/ AT  A7:C/iSS//T  KNOn'S 


[hook  I 


then,  percoiviii},'  tliat  sln^  liad  coino  to  tlie  brink  of  tlic  level 
j^rouiid,  slu!  turned  and  suddenly  stret(died  out  her  arm  with 
almost  i'ranti(?  lonj^'inj,'  toward  the  cold,  ^'rey  lake  and  the 
dark  hills  behind,  when^  the  lires  of  the  west  still  struggled 
with  the  eneroacdiing  November  night. 

As  slu^  turned  there  was  light  enough  for  him  to  see  how 
bright  th(!  burning  colour  of  her  hair  was — bright  as  the 
burning  co|>[)er  glow  on  the  lower  feathers  of  those  great 
shadowy  wings  of  cloud — the  wings  of  night  that  were 
enfolding  the  dying  day.  Some  idea,  gathered  indefinittdy 
from  both  the  tierci'uess  of  her  gesture  and  his  transient 
observation  of  tlie  colour  of  her  hair,  suggested  to  him  that 
he  had  trodden  on  the  sacuvd  ground  of  a  passionate  heart. 

Poor  man!  li(^  would  have  been  only  too  glad  just  then 
to  have  effaced  his  foot-prints  if  he  had  had  the  least  idea 
how  to  do  it.  The  small  shawl  she  wore  fell  from  her 
unnoticed  as  she  went  quickly  into  the  house.  He  picked 
it  up,  and  folded  it  awkwardly,  but  with  meditative  care. 
It  was  a  scpiare  of  orange-coloured  merino,  such  as  pedlars 
who  deal  witli  the  s(puiws  always  carry,  an  ordinary  thing 
for  a  settler's  child  to  possess.  As  he  held  it,  ]3ates  felt 
compunction  that  it  Avas  not  something  finer  and  to  his  idea 
prettier,  for  lie  did  not  like  the  colour.  He  decided  that  he 
would  purchase  something  better  for  her  as  soon  as  possible. 
He  followed  her  into  the  house. 


CHAPTER   III 


NioHT,  black  and  cold,  settled  over  the  house  that  had 
that  day  for  the  first  time  been  visited  by  death.  Besides 
the  dead  man,  there  were  now  three  people  to  sleep  in  it: 
an  old  woman,  whose  failing  brain  had  little  of  intelligence 
left,  except  such  as  showed  itself  in  the  everyday  habits  of 
a  long  and  orderly  life;  the  young  girl,  whose  mind  slow  by 
nature  in  reaching  nuiturity  and  retarded  by  the  monotony 
of  her  life,  had  not  yet  gained  the  power  of  realising  its 


[hook  I 


CHAI*.  UlJ 


in  I  AT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


«r 


of  the  level 
•r  arm  with 
k(*  and  the 
1  struggled 

to  SCO  how 
gilt  as  tho 
tlioso  great 

til  at  were 
iidelinitely 
■i  transiiMit 
;o  him  that 
iiate  heart. 
1  just  then 
!  least  idea 

from  her 
He  picked 
itive  care, 
fis  pedlars 
lary  thing 
]iates  felt 
o  his  idea 

d  that  he 

possible. 


;hat  had 
Besides 
^p  in  it: 
dligence 
labits  of 
slow  by 
onotony 
sing  its 


own  deejx'r  thoughts,  still  less  of  explaining  them  to 
another;  and  tliis  man,  Jiates,  who,  being  by  natural  con- 
stitution peculiarly  suscc[»til»lc  to  the  strain  of  the  sight  of 
illness  and  de;ith  whicii  he  iiad  just  undergone,  was  not  in 
the  best  condition  to  resist  the  morbid  intlucnces  of  unhappy 
c()ni[)anionsiiip. 

The  girl  shed  tears  as  she  moved  about  sullenly.  She 
would  nots[icak  to  Jiates,  and  he  did  not  in  the  least  under- 
stand that,  sullen  as  due  was,  her  speechlessness  did  not 
result  from  that,  but  from  iuiibility  to  reduce  to  any  form 
the  chaotic  emotions  witliin  her,  or  to  find  any  expression 
which  might  represent  her  distress.  He  could  not  realise 
that  the  childish  miml  that  had  [)()wer  to  converse  for  trivial 
things  had,  as  yet,  no  word  for  the  not-trivial;  that  the 
blind  womanly  emotion  on  which  he  had  trodcU'n  had  as  yet 
no  counterpart  in  womanly  thought,  which  might  have 
formed  excuses  for  his  conduct,  or  at  least  have  compre- 
hended its  simplicity.  He  only  felt  uneasily  that  her  former 
cause  of  contention  with  '''im,  her  determination,  sudden  as 
her  father's  death,  to  leave  the  only  home  she  possessed, 
was  now  enforced  by  her  antagonism  to  the  suggestion  he 
had  made  of  a  future  marriage,  and  he  felt  increasing  annoy- 
ance that  it  should  be  so.  Naturally  enough,  a  deep  under- 
current of  vexation  was  settling  in  his  mind  towards  her  for 
feeling  that  antagonism,  bnt  he  was  vexed  also  with  himself 
for  having  suggested  the  fresh  source  of  contest  just  now  to 
comi)licate  the  issue  between  them  as  to  whether  she  should 
remain  where  she  was,  at  any  rate  for  the  present.  Remain 
she  nmst;  he  was  clear  upon  that  point.  The  form  of  his 
religious  theories,  long  held  in  comparative  isoLation  from 
mankind,  convinced  him,  whether  truly  or  not,  that  hu- 
manity was  a  very  bad  thing;  she  should  not  leave  his 
ju'otection,  and  he  was  considerate  enough  to  desire  that, 
when  the  time  came  for  launching  the  boat  which  was  to 
take  her  father's  body  to  burial,  he  should  not  need  to 
detain  her  by  force. 

The  girl  set  an  ill-cooked  supper  before  Bates  and  the 


i8 


WHAT  NEC  ESS /TV  KNOirS 


[hook  I 


hired  man,  and  would  not  lierself  eat.  As  Bates  sat  at  his 
supper  he  felt  drearily  that  his  position  "was  hard;  and, 
being  a  man  whose  training  disposed  liim  to  vaguely  look 
for  the  cause  of  trial  in  sin,  wondered  what  he  had  done 
that  it  had  thus  befallen  him.  His  memory  reverted  to  the 
time  when,  on  an  emigrant  ship,  he  had  made  friends  witli 
the  man  Cameron  who  that  day  had  died,  and  tliey  had 
agreed  to  choose  their  place  and  cast  in  tlieir  lot  together. 
It  had  been  i)art  of  tlie  agreement  that  tlie  aunt  who  accom- 
pani':id  liates  should  do  the  woman's  work  of  the  new  home 
until  she  was  too  old,  and  that  Cameron's  child  should  do  it 
when  she  was  old  enough. 

The  girl  was  a  little  fat  thing  then,  wearing  a  red  hood. 
Bates,  uneasy  in  his  mind  both  as  to  his  offer  of  marriage 
and  her  resentment,  asked  himself  if  he  was  to  blame  that 
he  had  begun  by  being  kind  to  \\i\v  then,  that  he  had  played 
with  her  upon  the  ship's  deck,  tliat  on  their  land  journey  lie 
had  often  carried  her  in  his  arms,  or  that,  in  the  years  of 
the  hard  isolated  life  Avhich  since  then  they  had  all  lived, 
he  had  taught  and  trained  the  girl  with  far  more  care  than 
her  father  had  bestowed  on  her.  Or  Avas  he  to  blame  that 
he  had  so  often  been  strict  and  severe  with  her?  Or  was  he 
unjust  in  feeling  now  that  he  had  a  rigliteous  claim  to 
respect  and  consideration  from  her  to  an  almost  greater 
extent  than  the  dead  father  Avhose  hard,  silent  life  had 
showed  forth  little  of  the  proper  attributes  of  fatherhood? 
Or  did  the  sin  for  which  he  was  now  being  punisijed  lie  in 
the  fact  that,  in  spite  of  her  constant  wilfulness  and  frecpient 
stupidity,  he  still  felt  such  affection  for  his  pupil  as  made 
him  unwilling,  as  he  phrr^sed  it,  to  seek  a  wife  elsewhere 
and  thus  thrust  her  from  her  place  in  the  household.  Bates 
had  a  certain  latent  contempt  for  women;  wives  he  thought 
were  easily  found  and  not  altogether  desirable;  and  with 
that  inconsistency  common  to  men,  he  looked  upon  his  pro- 
posal to  the  girl  now  as  the  result  of  a  much  more  unselfish 
impulse  than  he  had  done  an  hour  ago,  before  she  exclaimed 
at  it  so  scornfully.     He  did  not  know  how  to  answer  him- 


CHAP.  Ill] 


WHAT  A'/XLSS/ry  KNoirs 


19 


pro- 
fisli 
ned 
im- 


self.  In  all  honesty  he  could  not  accuse  liimself  of  not 
liaving  done  his  duty  by  the  girl  or  of  any  desire  to  shirk  it 
in  the  future;  and  that  being  the  case,  he  grew  every  minute 
more  inclined  to  believe  that  the  fact  that  his  duty  was  now 
being  made  so  disagreeable  to  him  was  owing,  not  to  any 
fault  of  his,  but  to  tlie  naughtiness  of  her  disposition. 

The  hired  man  slept  in  an  outer  shed.  When  he  had 
gone,  and  IJates  went  up  to  his  own  bed  in  the  loft  of  the 
log-house,  the  last  sound  that  he  heard  was  the  girl  sobbing 
where  she  lay  beside  the  old  woman  in  the  room  below. 
The  sound  was  not  cheering. 

The  next  day  was  sunless  and  colder.  Twice  that  morn- 
ing Sissy  Cameron  stopped  Bates  at  his  Avork  to  urge  her 
determination  to  leave  the  place,  and  twice  he  again  set  his 
reasons  for  refusal  before  her  with  what  patience  lie  could 
command.  He  told  her,  what  she  knew  without  telling, 
that  the  winter  was  close  upon  them,  that  the  winter's  work 
at  the  lumber  was  necessary  for  their  livelihood,  that  it  was 
not  in  his  power  to  find  her  an  escort  for  a  journey  at  this 
season  or  to  seek  another  home  for  her.  Then,  when  she 
came  to  him  again  a  third  time,  his  anger  broke  out,  and  he 
treated  her  with  neither  patience  nor  good  sense. 

It  was  in  the  afternoon,  and  a  chill  north  breeze  ruffled 
the  leaden  surface  of  the  lake  and  seemed  to  curdle  the 
water  with  its  breath;  patches  of  soft  ice  already  mottled 
it.  The  sky  was  white,  and  leafless  maple  and  evergreen 
seemed  ahnost  alike  colourless  in  the  dull,  cold  air.  r>att?s 
had  turned  from  his  work  to  stand  for  a  fcAV  moments  on 
the  hard  trodden  level  in  front  of  the  house  and  survey  the 
weather.  He  had  reason  to  survey  it  with  anxiety.  He 
was  anxious  to  send  the  dead  man's  body  to  the  nearest 
graveyard  for  decent  burial,  and  the  messenger  and  cart  sent 
on  this  errand  were  to  bring  back  another  man  to  work  with 
him  at  felling  the  timber  that  was  to  be  sold  next  spring. 
The  only  way  between  his  house  and  other  houses  lay  across 
the  lake  and  through  a  gaji  in  the  hills,  a  way  tliat  was 
passable  now,  and  passable  in  calm  days  when  winter  had 


20 


117/ AT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[nooK  I 


fully  come,  but  iinpassal)le  at  the  time  of  forming  ice  and  of 
falling  and  drifting  snow,  lie  hoped  that  the  snow  and  ice 
would  liold  off  until  his  plan  could  l)e  carried  out,  but  he 
held  his  face  to  the  keen  coh^  breeze  and  looked  at  the  mottled 
surface  of  the  lake  with  irritable  anxiety.  It  was  not  iiis 
way  to  coniide  his  anxiety  to  any  one;  he  was  bearing  it 
alone  when  tlie  girl,  who  had  been  sauntering  aimlessly 
about,  came  to  him. 

"If  I  don't  go  with  the  boat  to-morrow,"  she  said,  "I'll 
walk  across  as  so(m  as  the  ice'll  bear." 

With  that  he  turned  upon  lier.  "  And  if  I  was  a  worse 
man  than  I  am  I'd  let  ye.  It  would  be  a  comfort  to  me  to 
be  rid  of  ye.  WJiere  would  ye  go,  or  what  would  ye  do? 
Ye  ought  to  be  only  too  thankful  to  have  a  comfortable  home 
wliere  ye're  kept  from  harm.  It's  a  cruel  and  bad  world,  I 
tell  ye;  it's  going  to  destruction  as  fast  as  it  can,  and  ye'd 
go  with  it." 

The  girl  shook  with  passion.  "I'd  do  nothing  of  the 
sort,"  she  choked. 

All  the  anger  and  dignity  of  lier  being  were  aroused,  but 
it  did  not  follow  that  she  had  any  power  to  give  them  ade- 
quate utterance.  She  turned  from  him,  and,  as  she  stood, 
the  attitude  of  her  whole  figure  spoke  such  incredulity, 
scorn,  and  anger,  that  the  flow  of  hot-tempered  arguments 
with  Avliich  he  was  still  ready  to  seek  to  persuade  her 
reason,  died  on  his  lips.  He  lost  all  self-control  in  increas- 
ing ill-temper. 

"  Ye  may  prance  and  ye  may  dance " — he  jerked  the 
phrase  between  his  teeth,  using  words  wholly  inapplicable 
to  her  attitude  because  he  could  not  analyse  its  offensiveness 
sufficiently  to  find  words  that  applied  to  it.  "  Yes,  prance 
and  dance  as  much  as  ye  like,  but  ye'll  not  go  in  the  boat 
to-morrow  if  ye'd  six  fathers  to  bury  instead  of  one,  and 
ye'll  not  set  foot  out  of  this  clearing,  where  I  can  look  after 
ye.  I  said  to  the  dead  I'd  take  care  of  ye,  and  I'll  do  it — 
ungrateful  lass  though  ye  are." 

He  hurled  the  last  words  at  her  as  lie  turned  and  went 


CHAP.  Ill] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


21 


I'll 


the 
able 
iiess 
ranee 
boat 
,  and 
after 
3  it — 

went 


into  a  slied  at  the  side  of  the  house  in  which  he  had  before 
been  working. 

The  girl  stood  quite  still  as  long  as  he  was  within  sight. 
She  seemed  conscious  of  his  presence  though  she  was  not 
looking  towards  him,  for  as  soon  as  he  had  stepped  within 
the  low  opening  of  the  shed,  she  moved  away,  walking  in  a 
wavering  track  across  the  tilled  land,  walking  as  if  move- 
im'ut  was  the  end  of  her  purpose,  not  as  if  she  had  destina- 
tion. 

The  frozen  furrows  of  the  ploughed  land  crumbled  beneath 
lier  heavy  tread.  The  north  wind  grew  stronger.  When 
she  reached  the  edge  of  the  maple  wood  and  looked  up  with 
swollen,  tear-l)lurred  eyes,  she  saw  the  grey  branches  moved 
by  the  wind,  and  the  red  squirrels  leaped  from  branch  to 
branch  and  tree  to  tree  as  if  blown  by  tlie  same  air.  She 
wandered  up  one  side  of  the  clearing  and  down  the  other, 
sometimes  wading  knee-deep  in  loud  rustling  maple  leaves 
gathered  in  dry  hollows  within  the  wood,  sometimes  stum- 
bling over  frozen  furrows  as  she  crossed  corners  of  tlie 
l)loughed  land,  walking  all  the  time  in  helpless,  hopeless 


anger. 


When,  however,  she  came  back  behind  the  house  to  that 
part  of  the  clearing  bounded  by  the  narrow  and  not  very 
deep  ravine  which  running  water  had  cut  into  the  side  of 
the  hill,  she  seemed  to  gather  some  reviving  sensations  from 
the  variety  which  the  bed  of  the  brook  presented  to  her 
vi(;w.  Here,  on  some  dozen  feet  of  steeply  sloping  rock 
and  earth,  which  on  either  side  formed  the  trough  of  the 
l)ro(jk,  vegetable  life  was  evidently  more  delicate  and  luxu- 
riant than  elsewhere,  in  the  season  when  it  had  sway. 
Even  now,  when  the  reign  of  the  frost  held  all  such  life  in 
abeyance,  this  grave  of  the  dead  summer  lacked  neither 
fretted  tomb  nor  wreathing  garland;  for  above,  the  bitter- 
sweet hung  out  heavy  festoons  of  coral  berries  over  the  pall 
of  its  faded  leaves,  and  beneath,  o"  ■)nd  of  fern  and 
stalk  of  aster,  and  on  rough  surface  c.  lien-covered  rock, 
the  frost  had  turned  the  spray  of  water  to  white  crystals, 


22 


IVIIAT  Nice  ESS  IT  V  KNOIVS 


[P.OOK  I 


and  the  stream,  with  imprisoned  far-off  murmur,  nuide  its 
little  leaps  witliin  fairy  palaces  of  icicles,  and  spread  itself 
in  pools  whose  leafy  contents  gave  colours  of  mottled  mar- 
ble to  the  ice  that  had  grov/n  u[)on  them.  It  was  on  the 
nearer  bank  of  this  stream,  where,  a  little  below,  it  curved 
closer  to  the  house,  that  her  father,  falling  with  a  frost- 
loosened  rock,  had  received  his  fatal  injury.  Out  of  the 
pure  idleness  of  despondency  it  occurred  to  the  girl  that, 
from  the  point  at  which  she  had  now  arrived,  she  might 
obtain  a  new  view  of  the  small  landslip  which  had  caused 
the  calamity. 

She  cast  her  arms  round  a  lithe  young  birch  whose  silver 
trunk  bent  from  the  top  of  the  l^ank,  and  thus  bridging  the 
tangle  of  shrub  and  vine  she  hung  over  the  short  precipice 
to  examine  the  spot  with  sad  curiosity. 

She  herself  could  hardly  have  told  what  thoughts  passed 
through  her  mind  as,  childlike,  she  thus  lapsed  from  hard 
anger  into  temporary  amusement.  But  greater  activity  of 
mind  did  come  with  the  cessation  of  movement  and  the 
examination  of  objects  which  stimulated  such  fancy  as  she 
possessed.  She  looked  at  the  beauty  in  the  ravine  beneath 
her,  and  at  the  rude  destruction  tliat  falling  earth  and  rock 
had  wrought  in  it  a  few  yards  further  down.  She  began 
to  wonder  wliether,  if  tlie  roots  of  the  tree  on  which  she 
was  at  full  length  stretched  should  give  way  in  the  same 
manner,  and  such  a  fall  prove  fatal  to  her  also,  Mr.  Bates 
would  be  sorry.  It  gave  her  a  sensation  of  pleasure  to 
know  that  such  a  mishap  would  annoy  and  distress  him 
very  much;  and,  at  the  very  moment  of  this  sensation,  she 
drew  back  and  tested  the  firmness  of  the  ground  about  its 
roots  before  resigning  herself  unreservedly  to  '-.he  tree 
again.  When  she  had  resumed  her  former  position  with  a 
feeling  of  perfect  safety,  she  continued  for  a  few  minutes 
to  dilate  in  fancy  upon  the  suffering  that  would  be  caused 
by  the  death  her  whim  had  suggested.  She  was  not  a  cruel 
girl,  not  on  the  whole  ill-natured,  yet  such  is  human  nature 
that  this  idea  was  actually  the  first  that  had  given  her  sat- 


1; 


CHAr.  Ill] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


23 


isfactioii  for  many  hours.  How  sorry  Mr.  Bates  would  be, 
when  he  found  her  dead,  that  he  had  dared  to  speak  so 
angrily  to  her!  It  was,  in  a  way,  luxurious  to  contemplate 
the  i)athos  of  such  an  artistic  death  for  herself,  and  its 

I       fine  effect,  by  way  of  revenge,  upon  the  guardian  who  had 
made  himself  intolerable  to  her. 

From  her  post  of  observation  she  now  saw,  what  had  not 
Ix'fore  been  observed  by  any  one,  that  wliere  rock  and  earth 
liad  fallen  treacherously  under  her  fatlier's  tread,  another 
])()rti()n  of  the  bank  was  loosened  ready  to  fall.  Where 
tliis  loosening — the  work  no  doubt  of  the  frost — had  taken 
l)lace,  there  was  but  a  narrow  passage  between  the  ravine 

;;  and  tlie  house,  and  she  was  startled  to  be  the  first  to  dis- 
i  cover  what  was  so  essential  for  all  in  the  house  to  know. 
For  many  days  the  myriad  leaves  of  the  forest  had  lain 
everywhere  in  the  dry  atmosphere  peculiar  to  a  Canadian 
autumn,  till  it  seemed  now  that  all  weij^ht  and  moisture 
liad  left  them.  They  were  curled  and  puckered  into  half 
balloons,  ready  for  the  wind  to  toss  and  drift  into  every 
available  gap.  So  strewn  was  this  passage  with  such  dry 
leaves,  which  even  now  the  wind  was  drifting  upon  it  more 
thickly,  that  the  danger  might  easily  have  remained  unseen. 
Tlien,  as  fancy  is  fickle,  her  mind  darted  from  the  pleas- 
urable idea  of  her  own  death  to  consider  how  it  would  be  if 
she  did  not  make  known  her  discovery  and  allowed  her 
enemy  to  walk  into  the  snare.  This  idea  was  not  quite  as 
attractive  as  the  former,  for  it  is  sweeter  to  think  of  oneself 
as  innocently  dead  and  mourned,  than  as  guilty  and  perform- 
ing the  office  of  mourner  for  another;  and  it  was  of  herself 
only,  whether  as  pictured  in  Bates's  sufferings  or  as  left 
libenited  by  his  death,  that  tlie  girl  was  thinking.  Still  it 
afforded  relaxation  to  imagine  what  she  mip'it  do  if  she 
were  thus  left  mistress  of  the  situation;  and  she  devised  a 
scheme  of  action  for  these  circumstances  that,  in  its  clever 
adaptation  to  what  would  be  required,  would  have  greatly 
amazed  tlie  man  who  looked  upon  her  as  an  unthinking  child. 
The  difference  between  a  strong  and  a  weak  mind  is  not 


24 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[lU)OK  I 


that  the  strong  mind  does  not  indulge  itself  in  wild  fancies, 
but  that  it  never  gives  to  su(!h  fancy  the  power  of  capri- 
cious sway  over  the  centres  of  purpose.  This  young  woman 
was  strong  in  mind  as  in  body.  No  flickering  intention 
of  actually  performing  thtit  which  slie  had  imagined  had 
place  within  her.  She  i)layed  with  the  idea  of  death  as 
she  might  have  played  with  a  toy,  wliile  resting  herself 
from  the  angry  question  into  which  her  whole  being  had 
for  two  days  concentrated  itself,  as  to  how  she  could  thwart 
tlie  will  of  the  man  who  had  assumed  authority  over  her, 
and  gain  the  freedom  that  she  felt  was  necessary  to  life 
itself. 

She  had  not  lain  many  minutes  upon  the  out-growing 
birch  before  she  had  again  forgotten  her  gust  of  revengeful 
fancy,  f  nd  yielded  herself  to  her  former  serious  mood  with 
a  reaction  of  greater  earnestness.  The  winter  beauty  of 
the  brook,  the  grey,  silent  trees  above,  and  the  waste  of 
dry  curled  leaves  all  round — these  faded  from  her  observa- 
tion because  tlie  eye  of  her  mind  was  again  turned  inwards 
to  confront  the  circumstances  of  her  difficulty. 

As  she  leaned  thus  in  childlike  attitude  and  Avomanly 
size,  her  arms  twined  round  the  tree  and  her  cheek  resting 
on  its  smooth  surface,  that  clumsiness  which  in  all  young 
animals  seems  inseparable  from  the  period  when  recent 
physical  growth  is  not  yet  entirely  permeated  by  the  char- 
acter-life which  gives  it  individual  expression,  was  not 
apparent,  and  any  intelligent  eye  seeing  her  would  have 
seen  large  beauty  in  her  figure,  which,  like  a  Venus  in  the 
years  when  art  was  young,  had  no  cramped  proportions. 
Her  rough,  grey  dress  hung  heavily  about  her;  the  mocca- 
sins that  encased  her  feet  v/ere  half  hidden  in  the  loose  pile 
of  dry  leaves  which  had  drifted  high  against  the  root  of 
the  tree.  There  was,  however,  no  visible  eye  there  to 
observe  her  youthful  comeliness  or  her  youthful  distress. 
If  some  angel  was  near,  regarding  her,  she  did  not  know 
it,  and  if  she  had,  she  would  not  have  been  much  inter- 
ested; there  was  nothing  in  her  mood  to  respond  to  angelic 


CHAP.  Ill] 


irJIAT  JV£'C7iSS//y  k'NQirS 


25 


pity  or  appreciation.  As  it  was,  the  strong  tree  was  im- 
potent to  return  her  embrace;  its  0  dd  bark  liad  no  response 
lor  the  caress  of  her  cheek;  the  north  wind  tliat  liowled, 
the  trees  that  swayed,  the  dead  leaves  that  rustling  Hed, 
and  the  stream  that  murmured  under  its  ice,  gave  but  drear 
companionship.  Had  she  yielded  her  mind  to  their  in- 
Huonce,  the  desires  of  her  heart  might  have  been  numbed 
to  a  transient  despair  more  nearly  akin  to  a  virtuous  resig- 
nation to  circumstance  tlian  the  revolt  that  was  now  ram- 
pant within  her.  She  did  not  yield;  she  was  not  now 
observing  them;  they  only  effected  upon  her  inattentive 
senses  an  impression  of  misery  which  fed  the  strength  of 
revolt. 

A  minute  or  two  more  and  the  recumbent  position  had 
become  unendurable  as  too  passive  to  correspond  with  the 
inward  energy.  She  clambered  back,  and,  standing  upon 
level  ground,  turned,  facing  the  width  of  the  bare  clearing 
and  the  rough  Imildings  on  it,  and  looked  toward  the  down- 
ward slope  and  the  wild  lake,  whose  cold  breath  of  water 
was  agitated  by  the  wind.     The  sky  was  full  of  cloud. 

She  stood  up  with  folded  arms,  strength  and  energy  in 
the  stillness  of  her  attitude.  She  heard  the  sound  of  car- 
penter's tools  coming  from  the  shed  into  which  ]3ates  had 
retired.  No  other  hint  of  humanity  was  in  the  world  to 
which  she  listened,  which  she  surveyed.  As  she  folded 
her  arms  she  folded  her  bright  coloured  old  sliawl  about 
her,  and  seemed  to  gather  within  its  folds  all  warmth  of 
colour,  all  warmth  of  feeling,  that  was  in  that  wild,  deso- 
late i)lace. 

A  tiake  of  snow  fell  on  the  shawl;  she  did  not  notice  it. 
Another  rested  upon  her  cheek;  then  she  started.  She  did 
not  move  much,  but  her  face  lifted  itself  slightly;  her  tear- 
swollen  eyes  were  wide  open;  her  lips  were  parted,  as  if 
her  breath  could  hardly  pass  to  and  fro  quickly  enough  to 
keep  pace  with  agitated  thought.  The  snow  had  begun  to 
come.  She  knew  well  that  it  would  go  on  falling,  not  to- 
day perhaps,  nor  to-morrow,  but  as  certainly  as  time  would 


26  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOIVS  [book  i 

bring  the  following  days,  so  certainly  the  snow  would  fall, 
covering  the  frozen  surface  of  the  earth  and  water  with 
foot  above  foot  of  powdery  whiteness.  Far  as  she  now 
was  from  the  gay,  active  throng  of  fellow-creatures  which 
she  conceived  as  existing  in  the  outer  world,  and  with 
whom  she  longed  to  l)e,  the  snow  would  make  that  distance 
not  only  great,  but  impassable  to  her,  unaided. 

It  was  true  that  she  had  threatened  Bates  with  flight  by 
foot  across  the  frozen  lake;  but  she  knew  in  truth  that  sucli 
dei)arture  was  as  dependent  on  the  submission  of  his  will 
to  hers  as  was  her  going  in  the  more  natural  way  by  boat 
th(!  next  day,  for  the  track  of  her  snow-shoes  and  tl»e 
slowntiss  of  her  journey  u})on  them  would  always  keep  her 
within  his  power. 

The  girl  contemplated  the  falling  flakes  and  her  own 
immediate  future  at  the  same  moment.  The  one  notion 
clear  to  her  mind  was,  that  she  must  get  away  from  that 
place  before  the  cold  had  time  to  enchain  the  lake,  or  these 
flakes  to  turn  the  earth  into  a  frozen  sea.  Her  one  hope 
was  in  the  boat  that  would  be  launched  to  carry  her  dead 
father.     She  must  go.     She  must  go  ! 

Youth  would  not  be  strong  if  it  did  not  seek  for  happi- 
ness with  all  its  strength,  if  it  did  not  spurn  pain  with 
violence.  All  the  notions  that  went  to  make  up  this  girl's 
idea  of  pain  were  gathered  from  her  present  life  of  monot- 
ony and  loneliness.  All  the  notions  that  went  to  make  up 
her  idea  of  happiness  were  culled  from  what  she  had  heard 
and  dreamed  of  life  beyond  her  wilderness.  Added  to  this 
there  was  the  fact  that  the  man  who  had  presumed  to  stand 
between  her  and  tlie  accomplishment  of  the  first  strong  vo- 
lition of  her  life  had  become  intolerable  to  her — whether 
more  by  his  severity  or  by  his  kindliness  she  could  not  tell. 
She  folded  her  shawl-draped  arms  more  strongly  across  her 
breast,  and  hugged  to  herself  all  the  dreams  and  desires, 
hopes  and  dislikes,  that  had  grown  within  her  as  she  liad 
grown  in  mind  and  stature  in  that  isolated  place. 

How  could  she  accomplish  her  will? 


CHAP.  Ill]  IVJIAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


27 


The  fliikos  fell  upon  the  co[)pei'  gloss  of  her  uncombed 
hair,  on  face  and  hands  that  reddened  to  the  cold,  and 
gathered  in  tlie  folds  of  the  shawl.  She  stood  as  still  as 
a  waxen  figure,  if  waxen  figure  (tould  ever  be  true  to  the 
power  of  will  which  her  pose  betrayed.  "When  the  ground 
was  white  witli  small  dry  flakes  she  moved  again.  Ifer 
reverie,  for  lack  of  material,  seemed  to  luive  come  to  noth- 
ing fresh.  She  determined  to  prefer  her  request  again  to 
r>ates. 

She  walked  round  the  house  and  came  to  the  shed  door. 
In  this  shed  large  kettles  and  other  vessels  for  potash- 
making  were  set  up,  but  in  front  of  tliese  Bates  and  his 
man  were  at  work  making  a  rude  j)inewood  cofHn,  The 
servant  was  the  elder  of  the  two.  He  had  a  giant-like, 
sinewy  frame  and  a  grotesc^uely  snuiU  head;  his  cheeks 
were  round  and  red  like  apples,  and  his  long  wliiskers 
evidently  received  some  attention  from  his  vanity;  it 
seemed  an  odd  freak  for  vanity  to  take,  for  all  the  rest 
of  him  was  rough  and  dirty.  He  wriggled  when  tlie  girl 
darkened  the  doorway,  but  did  not  look  straight  at  her. 

"There's  more  of  the  bank  going  to  slip  where  father 
fell — it's  loose,"  she  said. 

They  both  heard.  The  servant  answered  her,  comment- 
ing on  the  information.  These  were  the  only  words  that 
were  said  for  some  time.  The  girl  stood  and  pressed  her- 
self against  the  side  of  the  door.  Bates  did  not  look  at 
her.  At  last  she  addressed  him  again.  Her  voice  was  low 
and  gentle,  perhaps  from  fear,  perhaps  from  desire  to  per- 
suade, perhaps  merely  from  repression  of  feeling. 

"Mr.  Bates,"  she  said,  "you'll  let  me  go  in  the  boat  with 
that?" — she  made  a  gesture  toward  the  unfinished  coffin. 

His  anger  had  cooled  since  he  had  last  seen  her,  not 
lessening  but  hardening,  as  molten  metal  loses  malleability 
as  it  cools.  Much  had  been  needed  to  fan  his  rage  to  flame, 
but  now  the  will  fused  by  it  had  taken  tlie  mould  of  a  hard 
de(dsion  that  nothing  but  the  l)lowing  of  another  fire  wou-ld 
melt. 


28  WHAT  /viiCKssrry  knoivs  [mook  r 

"  Ye'll  not  go  unless  you  go  in  a  cottiu  instoad  of  along- 
side of  it." 

The  course!  humour  of  his  refusal  was  analogous  to  the 
laugli  of  a  (^hidden  (diild;  it  expressed  not  amusement,  but 
an  attempt  to  conceal  nervous  diseomposun;.  The  other 
man  laughcnl;  his  mind  was  low  enough  to  be  amused. 

"It's  no  place  for  me  liere,"  she  urged,  "and  I  ouglit  by 
riglits  to  go  to  the  burying  of  my  father." 

"There's  no  place  for  ye  neither  where  he'll  be  buried; 
and  as  to  ye  being  at  the  funeral,  it's  only  because  I'm  a 
long  siglit  better  tlian  other  men  about  the  country  that  I 
don't  shovel  him  in  where  he  fell.  I'm  getting  out  the 
boat,  and  sending  Saul  here  and  the  ox-cart  two  days'  jour- 
ney, to  have  him  put  decently  in  a  churchyard.  I  don't 
b'lieve,  if  I'd  died,  you  and  your  father  would  have  done  as 
much  by  me." 

As  he  lauded  his  own  righteousness  his  voice  was  less 
hard  for  the  moment,  and,  like  a  child,  she  caught  some 
hope. 

"  Yes,  it's  good  of  you,  and  in  the  end  you'll  be  good  and 
let  me  go  too,  Mr.  Bates." 

"Oh  yes."  There  was  no  assent  in  his  voice.  "And 
I'll  go  too,  to  see  that  ye're  not  murdered  when  Saul  gets 
drunk  at  the  first  house;  and  we'll  take  my  aunt  too,  as  we 
can't  leave  her  behind;  and  we'll  take  the  cow  tliat  has  to 
be  milked,  and  the  pigs  and  hens  that  have  to  be  fed;  and 
when  we  get  there,  we'll  siettle  down  without  any  house  to 
live  in,  and  feed  on  air." 

His  sarcasm  came  from  him  like  the  sweat  of  anger;  he 
did  not  seem  to  take  any  voluntary  interest  in  the  i)lay  of 
his  words.  His  manner  was  cool,  but  it  was  noticeable 
that  he  had  stopped  his  work  and  was  merely  cutting  a 
piece  of  wood  with  his  jack-knife.  As  she  looked  at  hiui 
steadily  he  whittled  the  more  savagely. 

The  other  man  laughed  again,  and  wriggled  as  he 
laughed. 

"No,"  she  replied,  "you  can't  come,  I  know;  but  I  can 
take  care  of  myself." 


(  IIAI'.  Ill] 


It 7/1/'  iV/x/jss/rr  a'JVOWs 


29 


"It's  a  iliievin.u;,  dniiiki'ii  lot  of  fellows  Saul  will  fall  in 
with.  Ve  may  jiivfor  thoir  society  to  mine,  but  I'll  not 
risk  it." 

"1  can  go  to  the  minister." 

"And  liis  wife  would  ni;ike  a  kitchon-girl  of  ye,  and  yc^'d 
run  off  from  her  in  a  week.  If  ye'd  not  stay  here,  where 
yo.  have  it  all  your  own  way,  it's  not  long  that  ye'd  put  up 
\vi'  my  lady's  fault-finding;  and  ministers  and  their  wives 
isn't  nnudi  better  than  other  folks — I've  told  ye  before 
what  1  think  of  that  sort  of  truck." 

There  was  a  glitter  in  her  eyes  that  would  have  startled 
him,  but  he  did  not  see  it.  He  was  looking  only  at  the 
wood  he  was  cutting,  but  he  never  observed  that  he  was 
cutting  it.     After  a  miimte  he  uttered  his  conclusion. 

"  Ye'll  stay  wi'  me." 

''^ Stay  with  you,"  she  cried,  her  breath  catching  at  her 
words — "  for  how  long?  " 

"I  don't  know."  Complete  indifference  was  in  his  t(me. 
"Till  ye're  old,  I  suppose;  for  I'm  not  likely  to  find  a 
better  place  for  ye." 

All  the  force  of  her  nature  was  in  the  words  she  cast  at 
him. 

''ini  not  stay.'' 

"No?"  he  sneered  in  heavy,  even  irony.  "Will  ye  cry 
on  the  neighbours  to  fetch  ye  away?" 

She  did  not  need  to  turn  her  head  to  see  the  wild  loneli- 
ness of  hill  and  lake.  It  was  present  to  her  mind  as  she 
leaned  on  the  rough  wooden  lintel,  looking  into  the  shed. 

"Or,"  continued  he,  "will  ye  go  a-visiting.  There's  the 
Indians  camping  other  side  o'  the  mountain  here  " — he 
jerked  his  head  backward  to  denote  the  direction — "and 
one  that  came  down  to  the  tree-cutting  two  weeks  ago  said 
there  were  a  couple  of  wolves  on  the  other  hill.  I  dare  say 
either  Indians  or  wolves  would  be  quite  glad  of  the  pleasure 
o'  your  company. " 

She  raised  herself  up  and  seemed  suddenly  to  fill  the 
doorway,  so  that  both  men  looked  up  because  much  of  their 
light  was  withdrawn. 


30 


ll'J/AT  NIiCKSS/rv  KNOirS 


[llOOK  ! 


"You'd  not  have  dared  to  speak  to  me  like  this  wliile 
lather  was  Jilivo." 

As  a  matter  of  fact  the  aceiisation  was  not  true.  Tlie 
father's  presence  or  absence  wouhl  \k\\\\  made  no  ditTereuee 
to  J*)ates  had  lie  been  wrouglit  uj*  to  the  sann;  ])itch  of 
an^'(U';  but  ncitlier  he  nor  tiie  girl  was  in  a  condition  to 
know  this.      lie  only  replied: 

"That's  the  reason  I  waited  till  he  was  dead." 

"If  he  hadn't  been  hurt  so  sudden  he  wouldn't  have  left 
mo  here." 

"lUit  he  icas  hurt  sudden,  and  he  did  leave  ye  here." 

She  made  as  if  to  answer,  but  did  not.  Both  men  were 
h)oking  at  her  now.  The  snow  was  white  on  her  hair. 
Her  tears  had  so  long  been  dry  that  the  swollen  look  was 
passing  from  her  face.  It  had  been  until  now  at  best  a 
heavy  face,  but  feeling  that  is  strong  enough  works  like  a 
master's  swift  ehis(d  to  make  tlu^  features  the  vehicle  of 
the  soul.  Both  men  were  relieved  when  she  suddenly  took 
her  eyes  from  them  and  her  shadow  from  their  work  and 
went  away. 

Saul  stretched  his  head  and  looked  after  her.  There  was 
no  pity  in  his  little  apple  face  and  ])eady  eyes,  only  a  sort 
of  cunning  curiosity,  and  the  rest  was  dulness  and  weak- 
ness. 

Bates  did  not  look  after  her.  He  shut  his  knife  and  fell 
to  joining  the  coffin. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

The  girl  lifted  the  latch  of  the  house-door,  and  went  in. 
She  was  in  the  living-room.  The  old  woman  sat  in  a  chair 
that  was  built  of  wood  against  the  log  wall.  She  was  look- 
ing discontentedly  before  her  at  an  iron  stove,  which  had 
grown  nearly  cold  for  lack  of  attention.  Some  chairs,  a 
table,  a  bed,  and  a  ladder  which  led  to  the  room  above, 
made  the  chief   part  of   the  furniture.     A  large  mongrel 


CIIAI'.  ivj 


ll'J/AT  MXKSS/I)-  kXOllS 


3' 


doj,',  wliicli  lookod  as  if  lie  luid  some  blood  of  tlu»  ^Tcy 
soiilliorii  sli(H'i)  dog  in  him,  rose  from  In'foiH'  tlio  stove  and 
grcrted  the  in-eomer  silently. 

Tlie  (log  liad  blue  eyes,  and  \\(\  held  up  his  face  wistfully, 
as  if  he  knew  something  was  the  matter.  The  old  woman 
cuiiiphiincd  of  eold.  It  was  plain  that  she  did  not  remem- 
ber anything  eoneerning  death  or  tears. 

Tliero  was  one  other  door  in  the  si(h;  of  the  room  whitdi 
led  to  the  only  inner  chamber.  The  girl  went  into  this 
('liand)er,  and  the  heed  she  gave  to  the  dog's  symi)athy  was 
to  hold  the  door  and  let  him  f(dlow  her.  Then  sht;  bolted 
it.  There  were  two  narrow  beds  built  against  the  wall;  in 
u\w  of  these  the  eor[)se  of  a  grey-haired  man  was  lying. 
Th(?  dog  had  seen  death  before,  and  he  evidently  under- 
stood what  it  was.  ]fe  did  not  move  quickly  or  snilf 
about;  he  laid  his  head  on  the  edge  of  the  winding-sheet 
and  moaned  a  little. 

The  girl  did  not  moan.  She  knelt  down  some  way  from 
the  bed,  with  a  desire  to  pray.  She  did  not  pray;  she  whis- 
pered her  anger,  her  unhai)piness,  her  desires,  to  the  air  of 
the  eold,  still  room,  repe.ating  the  same  phrases  again  and 
again  with  clenched  hands  and  the  convulsive  gestures  of 
haU'-eontrolled  passion. 

The  reason  she  did  not  pray  was  that  she  believed  that 
she  could  only  pray  when  she  w\as  "good,"  and  after  fall- 
ing on  her  knees  she  became  aware  that  goodness,  as  she 
understood  it,  was  not  in  her  just  then,  nor  did  she  even 
(h'sire  it.  The  giving  vent  to  her  misery  in  half-audible 
whis])ers  followed  involuntiirily  on  her  intention  to  pray. 
She  knew  not  why  she  thus  poured  out  her  heart;  she 
hardly  realised  what  she  said  or  Avished  to  say;  yet,  be- 
cause some  expression  of  her  helph;ss  need  was  necessary, 
and  because,  through  fear  and  a  rugged  sense  of  her  own 
evil,  she  sedulously  averted  her  mind  from  the  thought  of 
(Jod,  her  action  had,  more  than  anything  else,  the  sem- 
blance of  an  invocation  to  the  dead  man  to  arise  and  save 
her,  and  take  vengeance  on  her  enemy. 


32 


WHAT  NEC  ESS/TV  KISTOWS 


[nooK  I 


Daylight  was  in  the  room.  The  girl  had  knelt  at  first 
upright;  then,  as  her  passion  seemed  to  avail  nothing,  but 
only  to  weary  her,  she  sank  back,  sitting  on  her  feet, 
buried  her  locked  hands  deeply  in  lier  lap,  and  with  head 
bowed  over  tliem,  continued  to  stab  the  air  with  short, 
almost  inaudible,  com})laints.  The  dead  man  lay  still. 
The  dog,  after  standing  long  in  subdued  silence,  came  and 
with  his  tongue  softly  lapped  some  of  the  snow-water  from 
her  hair. 

After  that,  she  got  up  and  went  with  him  back  into  the 
kitchen,  and  lit  the  lire,  and  cooked  food,  and  the  day  waned. 

There  is  never  in  Nature  that  purpose  to  thwart  which 
man  in  his  peevishness  is  apt  to  attribute  to  her.  Just 
because  he  desired  so  nmch  that  the  winter  should  hold  off 
a  few  days  longer,  i3ates,  on  seeing  tlie  snow  falling  from 
tlie  white  opaque  sky,  took  for  granted  that  the  downfall 
would  continue  and  the  ice  upon  the  lake  increase.  Instead 
of  that,  the  snow  stopped  falling  at  twilight  without  appar- 
ent cause,  and  niglit  set  in  more  mildly. 

Darkness  fell  upon  the  place,  as  darkness  can  only  fall 
upon  solitudes,  with  a  lonesome  dreariness  that  seemed  to 
touch  and  press.  Night  is  not  always  dark,  but  with  this 
night  came  darkness.  There  was  no  star  nor  glimmer  of 
light;  the  pine-clad  hills  ceased  to  have  form;  the  water  in 
the  lake  was  lost  to  all  sense  but  that  of  hearing;  and  upon 
nearer  objects  the  thinly  sprinkled  snow  bestowed  no  dis- 
tinctness of  outline,,  but  only  a  weird  show  of  whitish 
shapes.  The  water  gave  forth  fitful  sobs.  At  intervals 
there  were  sounds  round  the  house,  as  of  stealthy  feet,  or 
of  quick  pattering  feet,  or  of  trailing  garments — this  was 
the  wind  busy  among  the  drifting  leaves. 

The  two  men,  who  had  finished  the  coffin  by  the  light  of 
a  lantern,  carried  it  into  the  house  and  set  it  up  against 
the  wall  while  they  ate  their  evening  meal.  Tlien  they 
took  it  to  a  table  in  the  next  room  to  put  the  dead  man  in 
it.  The  girl  and  the  dog  went  with  them.  They  had 
cushioned  tlie  box  with  coarse  sacking  filled  with  fragrant 


CHAP.  IV] 


WHAT  NEC  ESS /TV  KNOWS 


33 


I  upon 

dis- 

liitish 

irvals 

%  or 

was 


ht  of 

lainst 

jtlioy 

m  in 

had 

rrant 


pine  tassels,  but  the  girl  took  a  thickly  (piilted  cloth  from 
lier  own  bed  and  lined  it  more  carefully.  They  did  not 
hinder  her. 

''We've  made  it  a  bit  too  big,"  said  Saul;  "that'll  stop 
the  shaking." 

The  corpse,  according  to  American  custom,  was  dressed 
in  its  clothes — a  suit  of  light  grey  home-spun,  such  as  is 
to  be  bought  everywhere  from  French-Canadian  weavers. 
When  they  had  lifted  the  body  and  put  it  in  the  box,  they 
stopped  involuntarily  to  look,  before  the  girl  laid  a  hand- 
kerchief upon  tlie  face.  There  lay  a  stalwart,  grey-haired 
man — dead.  Perhaps  he  had  sinned  deeply  in  his  life; 
perhaps  he  had  lived  as  nobly  as  his  place  and  knowledge 
would  permit — they  could  not  tell.  Probably  they  each 
estimated  what  they  knew  of  his  life  from  a  different 
standpoint.  The  face  was  as  ashen  as  the  grey  hair 
about  it,  as  the  grey  clothes  the  body  wore.  They 
stood  and  looked  at  it — those  three,  wlio  were  bound  to 
each  other  by  no  tie  except  such  as  the  accident  of  time  and 
place  had  wrought.  The  dog,  who  understood  what  death 
was,  exhibited  no  excitement,  no  curiosity;  his  tail  drooped; 
he  moaned  (piietly  against  the  coffin. 

Bates  made  an  impatient  exclamation  and  kicked  him. 
The  kick  was  a  subdued  one.  The  wind-swept  solitude 
without  and  the  insistent  presence  of  death  within  had 
its  effect  upon  them  all.  Saul  looked  uneasily  over  his 
shoulder  at  the  shadows  which  tlie  guttering  candle  cast  on 
the  wall.  Bates  handled  the  coffin-lid  with  that  s^lirinking 
from  noise  which  is  peculiar  to  such  occasions. 

"Ye'd  better  go  in  the  other  room,"  said  he  to  Sissy. 
"It's  unfortunate  we  haven't  a  screw  left — we'll  have  to 
nail  it." 

Sissy  did  not  go.  They  had  made  holes  in  the  wood  for 
the  nails  as  well  as  they  could,  but  tliey  had  to  be  ham- 
mered in.  It  was  very  disagreeable — the  sound  and  the 
jar.  With  each  stroke  of  Saul's  l}ammer  it  seemed  to  the 
two  Avorkmen  that  the  deaa  man  jumped. 


i   i 


34 


IVHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[IJOOK  I 


"There,  man,"  cried  Bates  angrily;  "that'll  do." 

Only  four  nails  liad  been  put  in  their  places — one  in  each 
side.  With  irritation  that  amounted  to  anger  against 
Saul,  Bates  took  the  hammer  from  him  and  shoved  it  on  to 
a  high  shelf. 

"Ye  can  get  screws  at  the  village,  ye  know,"  he  said, 
still  indignantly,  as  if  some  fault  had  appertained  to  Saul. 

Then,  endeavouring  to  calm  an  ill-temper  which  he  felt 
to  be  wholly  unreasonable,  he  crossed  his  arms  and  sat 
down  on  a  chair  by  the  wall.  His  sitting  in  that  room  at 
all  perhaps  betokened  something  of  the  same  sensation 
which  in  Saul  produced  those  glances  before  and  behind, 
indicating  that  he  did  not  like  to  turn  his  back  upon  any 
object  of  awe.  In  Bates  this  motive,  if  it  existed,  was 
probably  unconscious  or  short-lived;  but  while  he  still  sat 
there  Saul  spoke,  with  a  short,  silly  laugh  which  was  by 
way  of  preface. 

"Don't  you  think,  now,  Mr.  Bates,  it  'ud  be  better  to 
have  a  prayer,  or  a  hymn,  or  something  of  that  sort? 
We'd  go  to  bed  easier." 

To  look  at  the  man  it  would  not  have  been  easy  to  attri- 
bute any  just  notion  of  the  claims  of  religion  to  him.  He 
looked  as  if  all  his  motions,  except  those  of  physical 
strength,  were  vapid  and  paltry.  Still,  this  was  what  he 
said,  and  Bates  replied  stiffly : 

"I've  no  objections." 

Then,  as  if  assuming  proper  position  for  the  ceremony 
that  was  to  ease  his  mind,  the  big  lumberman  sat  down. 
The  girl  also  sat  down. 

Bates,  wiry,  intelligent  Scot  that  he  was,  sat,  his  arms 
crossed  and  his  broad  jaw  firmly  set,  regarding  them  both 
with  contempt  in  his  mind.  What  did  they  eitl  cr  of  them 
know  about  the  religion  they  seemed  at  this  juncture  to 
feel  after  as  vaguely  as  animals  feel  after  something  they 
want  and  have  not?  But  as  for  him,  he  understood  relig- 
ion ;  he  was  quite  capable  of  being  priest  of  his  household, 
and  he  felt  that  its  weak  demand  for  a  form  of  worship  at 


OOK  I 


CHAP.  IV] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


35 


each 
;ainst 
on  to 

said, 

Saul, 
e  felt 
id  sat 
om  at 
Lsation 
eliind, 
)n  any 
d,  was 
bill  sat 
was  by 

itter  to 
t  sort? 

attri- 
,     He 
physical 
hat  he 


remony 
down. 

Is  arms 

Im  both 

)f  them 

Iture  to 

ig  they 
relig- 
[sehold, 

ship  at 


this  time  was  legitimate.  In  a  minute,  therefore,  he  got 
up,  and  fetching  a  large  Bible  from  the  living-room  he  sat 
down  again  and  turned  over  its  leaves  with  great  precision 
and  reverence. 

He  read  one  of  the  more  trenchant  of  the  Psalms,  a  long 
psalm  that  had  much  in  it  about  enemies  and  slaughter. 
It  had  a  very  strong  meaning  for  him,  for  he  put  himself 
in  the  place  of  the  writer.  The  enemies  mentioned  were, 
in  the  first  place,  sins — by  which  he  denoted  the  more 
open  forms  of  evil;  and,  in  the  second  place,  wicked  men 
who  might  interfere  with  him;  and  under  the  head  of 
wicked  men  he  classed  all  whom  he  knew  to  be  wicked, 
and  most  other  men,  wliom  he  supposed  to  be  so.  He  was 
not  a  self-righteous  man — at  least,  not  more  self-righteous 
than  most  men,  for  he  read  with  as  great  fervour  the  adju- 
rations against  sins  into  which  he  might  fall  as  against 
those  which  seemed  to  him  pointed  more  especially  at  other 
sinners  who  might  persecute  him  for  his  innocence.  He 
was  only  a  suspicious  man  made  narrower  by  isolation,  and 
the  liighest  idea  lie  had  of  what  God  required  of  him  was 
a  life  of  innocence.  There  was  better  in  him  than  this — 
nuich  of  impulse  and  action  that  was  positively  good ;  but 
he  did  not  conceive  that  it  was  of  the  workings  of  good 
that  seemed  so  natural  that  God  took  account. 

Upon  Saul  also  the  psalm  had  adequate  effect,  for  it 
sounded  to  him  pious,  and  that  was  all  he  desired. 

The  girl,  however,  could  not  listen  to  a  word  of  it.  She 
fidgeted,  not  with  movement  of  hands  or  feet,  but  with 
the  restlessness  of  mind  and  eyes.  She  gazed  at  the  boards 
of  the  ceiling,  at  the  boards  of  the  floor,  at  the  log  walls 
on  which  each  shadow  had  a  scalloped  edge  because  of 
tlie  form  of  tree-trunks  laid  one  above  another.  At  length 
her  eyes  rested  on  the  lid  of  the  coffin,  and,  with  nervous 
strain,  she  made  them  follow  the  grain  of  the  wood  up  and 
down,  up  and  down.  There  was  an  irregular  knot-hole  in 
the  lid,  and  on  his  her  eyes  fixed  themselves,  and  the  focus 
of  lier  sight  seemed  to  eddy  round  and  round  its  darkened 
edge  till,  with  an  effort,  she  turned  from  it. 


36 


IVHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  I 


The  boards  used  for  making  tlie  coffin  liad  been  by  no 
means  perfect.  They  were  merely  the  best  that  could  be 
chosen  from  among  the  bits  of  sawn  lumber  at  hand. 
There  was  a  tiny  hole  in  one  side,  at  the  foot,  and  this 
larger  one  in  the  lid  above  the  dead  man's  breast,  where 
knots  had  fallen  out  with  rough  handling,  leaving  oval 
apertures.  The  temptation  Sissy  felt  to  let  her  eyes 
labour  painfully  over  every  marking  in  the  wood  and  round 
these  two  holes — playing  a  sort  of  sad  mechanical  game 
therewith — and  her  efforts  to  resist  the  impulse,  made  up 
the  only  memory  she  had  of  the  time  the  reading  occupied. 

There  was  a  printed  prayer  upon  a  piece  of  paper  kept 
inside  the  lid  of  the  Bible,  and  when  Bates  had  read  the 
psalm,  he  read  this  also.  He  knelt  while  he  did  so,  and 
the  others  did  the  same.     Then  that  was  finished. 

"I'll  move  your  bed  into  the  kitchen,  Sissy,"  said  Bates. 

He  had  made  the  same  offer  the  night  before,  and  she 
had  accepted  it  tlien,  but  now  she  replied  that  she  would 
sooner  sleep  in  that  room  than  near  the  stove.  He  was  in 
no  mood  to  contest  such  a  point  with  her.  Saul  went  out 
to  his  shed.  Bates  shut  the  house  door,  and  went  up  the 
ladder  to  his  loft.  Both  were  soon  in  the  sound  slumber 
that  is  the  lot  of  men  who  do  much  outdoor  labour. 

The  girl  helped  the  old  woman  to  bed  in  the  kitchen. 
Then  she  went  back  and  sat  in  the  chamber  of  death. 

Outside,  the  wind  hustled  the  fallen  leaves. 


CHAPTER   V. 


At  dawn  Bates  came  down  the  ladder  again,  and  went 
out  quietly.  The  new  day  was  fair,  and  calm;  none  of 
his  fears  were  fulfilled.  The  dead  man  might  start  upon 
his  journey,  and  Bates  knew  that  the  start  must  be  an 
early  one. 

He  and  Saul,  taking  long-handled  oars  and  poles,  went 
down  to  the  water's  edge,  where  a  big,  flat-bottomed  boat 


CHAP.  V] 


IVHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


37 


bchen. 


went 
)ne  of 

upon 
Ibe  an 

went 
boat 


was  lying  drawn  np  on  the  shore  to  avoid  the  autumn 
storms.  The  stones  of  the  beach  looked  black:  liere  and 
tliere  were  bits  of  bright  green  moss  upon  them:  both 
stones  and  moss  had  a  coating  of  thin  ice  that  glistened  in 
the  morning  ligh^-. 

It  was  by  dint  of  great  exertion  that  they  got  the  clumsy 
vessel  into  the  water  and  fastened  her  to  a  small  wooden 
landing.  They  used  more  strength  than  time  in  their 
work.  There  was  none  of  that  care  and  skill  required  in 
the  handling  of  the  scow  that  a  well-built  craft  would  have 
needed.  When  she  was  afloat  and  tied,  they  went  up  the 
hill  again,  and  harnessed  a  yoke  of  oxen  to  a  rough  wooden 
cart.  Neither  did  this  take  them  long.  Bates  worked 
with  a  nervousness  that  almost  amounted  to  trembling. 
He  had  in  his  mind  the  dispute  with  the  girl  which  he  felt 
sure  awaited  him. 

In  this  fear  also  he  was  destined  to  be  disappointed. 
"When  he  went  to  the  inner  room  the  coffin  lay  as  he  had 
left  it,  ready  for  its  journey,  and  on  the  girl's  bed  in  the 
corner  the  thick  quilts  were  heaped  as  though  the  sleeper 
had  tossed  restlessly.  But  now  there  was  no  restlessness  ; 
he  only  saw  her  night-cap  beyond  the  quilts;  it  seemed 
that,  having  perhaps  turned  her  face  to  the  wall  to  weep, 
she  had  at  last  fallen  into  exhausted  and  dreamless 
slumber. 

Bates  and  Saul  carried  out  the  coffin  eagerly,  quietly. 
Even  to  the  callous  and  shallow  mind  of  Saul  it  was  a 
relief  to  escape  a  conicst  with  an  angry  woman.  They  set 
the  coffin  on  the  cart,  and  steadied  it  with  a  barrel  of  pot- 
ash and  sacks  of  buckwheat,  which  went  to  make  up  the 
load.  By  a  winding  way,  where  the  slope  was  easiest, 
tliey  drove  the  oxen  between  the  trees,  using  tiie  goad  more 
and  their  voices  as  little  as  might  be,  till  they  were  a  dis- 
tance from  the  house.  Some  trees  had  been  felled,  and  cut 
off  close  to  the  ground,  so  that  a  cart  might  pass  through 
the  wood;  this  was  the  only  sign  of  an  artificial  road.  The 
fine  powdered  snow  of  the  night  before  had  blown  away. 


38 


WHAT  NEC  ESS /TV  K'/VOIVS 


[JJOOK  I 


Wlien  tliey  readied  the  beacli  again,  the  eastern  sky, 
which  had  been  grey,  was  all  dappled  with  cold  pink,  and 
the  grey  water  reflected  it  somewhat.  There  was  clearer 
light  on  the  dark  green  of  the  pine-covered  hills,  and  the 
fine  ice  coating  on  stone  and  weed  at  the  water-side  had 
sharper  glints  of  brilliancy. 

Bates  observed  the  change  in  light  and  colour;  Saul  did 
not;  neitlier  was  disposed  to  dally  for  a  moment.  They 
were  obliged  to  give  fortli  their  voices  now  in  hoarse  ejacu- 
lations, to  make  the  patient  beasts  understand  that  they 
were  to  step  off  the  rough  log  landing-place  into  the  boat. 
The  boat  was  almost  rectangular  in  shape,  but  slightly 
narrower  at  the  ends  than  in  the  middle,  and  deeper  in  the 
middle  than  at  the  ends ;  it  was  of  rough  wood,  unpainted. 
The  men  disposed  the  oxen  in  the  middle  of  the  boat;  the 
cart  they  unloaded,  and  distrilnited  its  contents  as  they 
best  might.  With  long  stout  poles  they  tlien  pushed  off 
from  the  shore.  Men  and  oxen  were  reflected  in  the  quiet 
water. 

They  were  not  bound  on  a  long  or  perilous  voyage.  The 
boat  was  merely  to  act  as  a  ferry  round  a  precipitous  cliff 
where  the  shore  was  impassable,  and  across  the  head  of  the 
gashing  river  that  formed  the  lake's  outlet,  for  the  only 
road  through  the  hills  lay  along  the  further  shore  of  this 
stream. 

The  men  kept  the  boat  in  shallow  water,  poling  and  row- 
ing by  turns.  There  was  a  thin  coating  of  ice,  like  white 
silk,  forming  on  the  water.  As  they  went.  Bates  often 
looked  anxiously  where  the  log  house  stood  on  the  slope 
above  him,  fearing  to  see  the  girl  come  running  frantic  to 
the  water's  edge,  but  he  did  not  see  her.  The  door  of  the 
house  remained  shut,  and  no  smoke  rose  from  its  chimney. 
They  had  left  the  childish  old  woman  sitting  on  the  edge 
of  her  bed ;  Bates  knew  that  she  would  be  in  need  of  fire 
and  food,  yet  he  could  not  wish  that  the  girl  should  wake 
yet. 

"Let  her  sleep,"  he  muttered  to  himself.     "It  will  do 


CHAP.  V] 


WHAT  NEC  ESS/ TV  KiVOll'S 


39 


licr  good."     Yet  it  was  not  for  lier  good  lie  wished  her  to 
sleep,  but  for  his  own  peace. 

The  pink  faded  from  the  sky,  but  the  sun  did  not  shine 
forth  brightly.  It  remained  wan  and  cold,  like  a  moon 
behind  grey  vapours. 

"I'll  not  get  back  in  a  week,  or  on  wheels,"  said  Saul. 
He  spoke  mure  cheerfully  than  was  pleasing  to  his  em- 
ployer. 

"  If  it  snows  ye'll  have  to  hire  a  sleigh  and  get  back  the 
iirst  minute  you  can."     The  reply  was  stern. 

The  elder  and  bigger  man  made  no  further  comment. 
However  much  he  might  desire  to  be  kept  in  the  gay  world 
by  the  weather,  the  stronger  will  and  intellect,  for  the  hour 
at  least,  dominated  his  intention. 

They  rowed  their  boat  past  the  head  of  th^  river.  In  an 
hour  they  had  reached  that  part  of  the  shore  from  which 
the  inland  road  might  be  gained.  They  again  loaded  the 
cart.  It,  like  the  boat,  was  of  the  roughest  description; 
its  two  wheels  were  broad  and  heavy;  a  long  pole  was  mor- 
tised into  their  axle.  The  coffin  and  the  potash  barrel  filled 
the  cart's  breadth;  the  sacks  of  buckwheat  steadied  the 
barrel  before  and  behind.  The  meek  red  oxen  were  once 
more  fastened  to  it  on  either  side  of  the  long  pole.  The 
men  parted  without  farewells. 

Saul  turned  his  back  on  the  water.  The  large,  cold 
morning  rang  to  his  voice — "Gee.  Yo-hoi-ist.  Yo-hoi- 
eest.  Gee."  The  oxen,  answering  to  his  voice  and  his 
goad,  laboured  onward  over  the  sandy  strip  that  bound  the 
beach,  up  the  hill  among  the  maple  trees  that  grew  thickly 
in  the  vale  of  the  small  river.  Bates  watched  till  he 
saw  the  cattle,  the  cart,  and  Saul's  stalwart  form  only 
indistinctly  through  the  numerous  grey  tree-stems  that 
broke  the  view  in  something  the  way  that  ripples  in  water 
break  a  reflection.  When  the  monotonous  shouting  of 
Saul's  voice — "Gee,  gee,  there.  Haw,  wo,  haw.  Yo-hoi- 
eest,"  was  somewhat  mellowed  by  the  widening  space, 
Bates  stepped  into  the  boat,  and,  pushing  off,  laboured 
alone  to  propel  her  back  across  the  lake. 


40  WHAT  NEC  ESS /TV  KI^OWS  [hook  I 

It  took  him  longor  to  got  back  now  that  ho  was  singh- 
handod.  The  ciirreiit  of  tlio  hike  towards  its  outlet  tended 
to  push  the  great  (dunisy  scow  against  the  shore.  He 
worked  his  craft  with  one  oar  near  the  stern,  Imt  very  often 
he  was  obliged  to  drop  it  and  i)usli  out  from  shore  with  his 
pole.     It  was   arduous,  but  all  sense  of    the   cold,  bleak  ; 

weather  was  lost,  and  the  interest  and  excitement  of  the  | 

task  were  refreshing.     To  many  men,  as   to   many  dogs,  f 

there  is  an  inexplicable  and  unreasoning  pleasure  in  deal-  k 

ing  with  water  that  no  operation  upon  land  can  yield. 
Bates  was  one  of  these ;  he  would  hardly  have  chosen  his 
present  lot  if  it  had  not  been  so;  but,  like  many  a  dry 
character  of  his  stamp,  he  did  not  give  his  more  agreeable  |: 

sensations  the  name  of  pleasure,  and  therefore  could  afford  I; 

to  look  upon  pleasure  as  an  element  unnecessary  to  a  sober 
life.  Mid  pushings  and  splashings,  from  the  management 
of  his  scow,  from  air  and  sky,  hill  and  water,  he  was  in 
reality,  deriving  as  great  pleasure  as  any  millionaire  might 
from  the  sailing  of  a  choice  yacht;  but  he  was  aware  only 
that,  as  he  neared  the  end  of  his  double  journey,  he  felt  in 
better  trim  in  mind  and  body  to  face  his  lugubrious  and 
rebellious  ward. 

When,  however,  he  had  toiled  round  the  black  rock 
cliff  which  hid  the  clearing  from  the  river's  head,  and  was 
again  in  full  sight  of  his  own  house,  all  remembrance  of 
the  girl  and  his  dread  of  meeting  her  passed  from  him  in 
his  excessive  surprise  at  seeing  several  men  near  his  dwell- 
ing. His  dog  was  barking  and  leaping  in  great  excite- 
ment. He  heard  the  voices  of  other  dogs.  It  took  but  the 
first  glance  to  show  him  that  the  men  were  not  Indians. 
Full  of  excited  astonishment  he  pushed  his  boat  to  the 
shore. 

His  dog,  having  darted  with  noisy  scatter  of  dry  leaves 
down  the  hill  to  meet  him,  stood  on  the  shore  expectant 
with  mouth  open,  excitement  in  his  eyes  and  tail,  saying 
as  clearly  as  aught  can  be  said  without  words — "  This  is  li- 
very agreeable  event  in  our  lives.     Visitors  have  come.'' 


CHAP.  V] 


IVHAT  NECESSITY  AWOIVS 


41 


rock 

[l  was 

ce  of 

m  in 

Avell- 

cite- 

t  the 

iaiis. 

the 


is  ^ 
ime.'"' 


The  moniont  liates  ]nit  his  foot  on  land  the  dog  bonnded 
barking  up  the  liill,  then  turned  again  to  Uates,  then  again 
Ixmnded  oft'  toward  the  visitors.  Even  a  watchdog  may  be 
ghid  to  see  strangers  if  the  ph'asure  is  only  rare  enough. 

r>ates  mounted  the  slope  as  a  man  may  mount  stairs — 
two  steps  at  a  time.  Had  he  seen  the  strangers,  as  the 
saying  is,  dropping  from  thc^  clouds,  he  could  hardly  have 
been  more  surprised  than  he  was  to  see  civilised  people 
liad  reached  his  place  otherwise  than  by  the  lake,  for  the 
rugged  hills  afforded  nothing  but  a  much  longer  and  more 
arduous  way  to  any  settlement  within  reach.  When  he 
got  up,  however,  he  saw  that  these  men  carried  with 
them  implements  of  camp-life  and  also  surveying  instru- 
ments, by  which  he  judged,  and  rightly,  that  his  guests 
were  ranging  the  lonely  hills  upon  some  tour  of  official 
survey. 

That  the  travellers  ivere  his  guests  neither  he  nor  they 
had  the  slightest  doubt.  They  had  set  down  their  traps 
close  to  his  door,  and,  in  the  calm  conhdence  that  it  would 
soon  be  hospitably  opened  by  rightful  hands,  they  had 
made  no  attempt  to  open  it  for  themselves.  There  were 
eight  men  in  the  party,  two  of  whom,  apparently  its  more 
important  members,  sauntered  to  meet  Bates,  with  pipes 
in  their  mouths.  These  told  him  what  district  they  were 
surveying,  by  what  track  they  had  just  come  over  the  hill, 
where  they  had  camped  the  past  night,  where  tliey  wanted 
to  get  to  by  nightfall.  They  remarked  on  the  situation  of 
his  house  and  the  extent  of  his  land.  They  said  to  him, 
in  fact,  more  than  was  immediately  necessary,  but  not  more 
than  was  pleasant  for  him  to  hear  or  for  them  to  tell.  It 
is  a  very  taciturn  man  who,  meeting  a  stranger  in  a  wilder- 
ness, does  not  treat  him  with  more  or  less  of  friendly 
loquacity. 

Under  the  right  circumstances  Bates  was  a  genial  man. 
He  liked  the  look  of  these  men;  he  liked  the  tone  of  their 
talk;  and  had  he  liked  them  mucli  less,  the  rarity  of  the 
occasion  and  the  fact  that  he  was  their  host  would  have 


in /AT  A'KCliSS/TV  KNOWS 


[hook  r 


i  1 


ex[)an(lc(l  his  si)irits.  Ho  asked  astute  questions  about 
the  region  tliey  liad  traversed,  and,  as  they  talked,  he 
motioned  tlieni  towards  the  liouse.  J[e  had  it  distinc^tly 
in  his  mind  that  lie  was  glad  they  had  come  across  his 
place,  and  that  ho  would  give  them  a  hot  ))reakfast;  but 
he  did  not  say  so  in  words — just  as  they  had  not  troidded 
to  begin  tlieir  conversation  with  him  by  formal  greetings. 

Th(!  house  door  was  still  shut;  there  was  still  no  smoke 
from  the  chimney,  although  it  was  now  full  three  hours 
since  ]*)ates  had  left  the  place.  Saying  that  he  Avcmld  see 
if  the  women  were  up,  he  W(!nt  alone  into  the  house.  The 
living-room  was  deserted,  and,  passing  through  tlie  inniT 
door,  which  was  open,  he  saw  his  aunt,  who,  according  to 
custom  was  neatly  dressed,  sitting  on  the  foot  of  Sissy's 
empty  bed.  The  old  wt)man  was  evidently  cold,  and 
frightened  at  the  unusual  sounds  outside;  greatly  fretted, 
she  held  the  girl's  night-cap  in  her  hand,  and  the  monu'ut 
he  appeared  demanded  of  him  where  Sissy  was,  for  she 
must  have  her  breakfast.     The  girl  he  did  not  see. 

The  dog  had  followed  him.  lie  looked  up  and  wagged 
his  tail;  he  made  no  sign  of  feeling  concern  that  the  girl 
was  not  there.  Bates  could  have  cursed  his  dumbness;  he 
would  fain  have  asked  where  she  had  gone.  The  dog 
probably  knew,  but  as  for  Bates,  he  not  only  did  not  know, 
but  no  conjecture  rose  in  his  mind  as  to  her  probable 
whereabouts. 

He  took  his  aunt  to  her  big  chair,  piled  the  stove  from 
the  well-stored  wood-box,  and  lit  it.  Tlien,  shutting  the 
door  cf  the  room  where  the  disordered  bed  lay  and  throw- 
ing the  house-door  open,  he  bid  the  visitors  enter.  He 
went  out  himself  to  search  the  surroundings  of  the  house, 
but  Sissy  was  not  to  be  found. 

The  dog  did  not  follow  Bates  on  this  search.  He  sat 
down  before  the  stove  in  an  upright  position,  breathed  with 
his  mouth  open,  and  bestowed  on  the  visitors  such  cheerful 
and  animated  looks  that  they  talked  to  and  patted  him. 
Their  own  dogs  had  been  shut  into  the  empty  ox-shed  for 


CIIAl'.  V] 


WI/AT  NKCJiSS/TV  KNOWS 


43 


tlu!  sako  of  peace,  and  the  liouse-dog  was  very  much  master 
of  the  situation. 

Of  the  party,  the  two  surveyors — one  older  and  one 
young(U' — were  men  of  refinement  and  education.  Jiritisli 
they  were,  or  of  such  Canadian  birth  and  trainin*^  as  makes 
a  Ljood  imitation.  Five  of  tlie  others  wei-e  evidently  of 
liuiabh'r  })osition — axe-men  and  carriers.  The  eij,dith  man, 
who  (somphited  the  party,  was  a  young  American,  a  singu- 
hirly  liandsome  young  fellow — tall  and  lithe.  He  did  not 
stay  in  the  room  with  the  others,  but  lounged  outsider  by 
himself,  leaning  against  the  front  of  the  house  in  the 
white  cold  sunlight. 

In  the  meantime  IJates,  having  searched  the  sheds  and 
ins})e('ted  with  careful  eyes  the  naked  woods  above  the 
clearing,  came  back  disconsolately  by  the  edge  of  the 
ravine,  peering  into  it  suspiciously  to  see  if  the  girl  could, 
by  some  wild  freak,  be  hiding  there.  When  he  came  to 
the  narrow  strip  of  ground  between  the  wall  of  the  house 
and  the  broken  bank  he  found  himself  walking  knee-deep 
in  the  leaves  that  the  last  night's  gale  had  drifted  there, 
an.'  because  the  edge  of  the  ravine  was  thus  entirely  con- 
cealed, he,  remembering  Sissy's  warning,  kicked  about  the 
leaves  cautiously  to  find  the  crack  of  which  she  had 
spoken,  and  discovered  that  the  loose  portion  had  already 
fallen.  It  suddenly  occurred  to  him  to  wonder  if  the  girl 
could  possibly  have  fallen  with  it.  Instantly  he  sprang 
down  the  ravine,  feeling  among  the  drifted  leaves  on  all 
sides,  but  nothing  exce^^t  rock  and  earth  was  to  be  found 
under  their  light  heaps.  It  took  only  a  few  minutes  to 
assure  him  of  the  needlessness  of  his  fear.  The  low 
Avindow  of  the  room  in  which  Sissy  had  slept  looked  out 
immediately  upon  this  drift  of  leaves,  and,  as  Bates  passed 
it,  he  glanced  through  the  uncurtained  glass,  as  if  the  fact 
that  it  was  really  empty  was  so  hard  for  him  to  believe 
that  it  needed  this  additional  evidence.  Then  the  stacks 
of  fire-wood  in  front  of  the  house  were  all  that  remained 
to  be  searched,  and  Bates  walked  round,  looking  into  the 


44 


iVtMT  NECi:SS/TV  KA^OlVS 


[iJOOK  I 


narrow  aislos  bctwcon  iliciii,  lookin!:^  ;it  tli('  same  timo  down 
tlu!  hill,  iis  if  it  miglit  hv  ])()ssiblu  that  she  had  been  on 
thu  shoro  and  ho  V.ad  missed  her. 

""'/Vhat  are  y(m  looking  for?"  asked  tiic  young  Ameri- 
can. The  question  was  not  \n\.t  rudely.  There  wjis  a 
serenity  about  the  youth's  exi)eetation  of  an  answer  whieh, 
l)roving  that  Ik;  had  no  thought  of  over-stepping  good 
manners,  made  it,  at  the  same  time,  very  difficult  to  with- 
hold an  answer. 

]*>ates  turned  annoyed.  lie  had  supposed  everybody  was 
within. 

"What  have  you  lost?"  repeated  the  youth. 

"Oh "  said  liates,  prolonging  the  sound  indefinitely. 

He  was  not  deceitful  or  quick  at  invention,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  a  manifest  absurdity  to  reply — "a  girl."  He  ap- 
proached the  house,  words  hesitating  on  his  lips. 

"My  late  partner's  daughter,"  he  observed,  keeping  wide 
of  the  mark,  "usually  does  the  cooking." 

"  Married?  "  asked  the  young  man  rapidly. 

"She? — No,"  said  Bates,  taken  by  surprise. 

*'  Young  lady?  "  asked  the  other,  with  more  interest.  Bates 
was  not  accustomed  to  consider  his  ward  under  his  head. 

"She  is  just  a  young  girl  about  seventeen,"  he  replied 
stiffly. 

"Oh,  halibaloo! "  cried  the  youth  joyously.  "Why, 
stranger,  I  haven't  set  eyes  on  a  young  lady  these  two 
months.  I'd  give  a  five  dollar-bill  this  minute,  if  I  had  it, 
to  set  eyes  on  her  right  here  and  now."  He  took  his  pipe 
from  his  lips  and  clapped  his  hand  upon  his  side  with 
animation  as  he  spoke. 

Bates  regarded  him  with  dull  disfavour.  He  would  him- 
self have  given  more  than  the  sum  mentioned  to  have  com- 
passed the  same  end,  but  for  different  reasons,  and  his  own 
reasons  were  so  grave  that  the  youth's  frivolity  seemed  to 
him  dv)ubly  frivolous. 

"I  hope,"  he  said  coldly,  "that  she  will  come  in  soon." 
His  eyes  wandered  involuntarily  up  the  hill  as  he  spoke. 


A. 


CUM'.  V] 


U'l/AT  NECESS/TV  AWOH'S 


45 


"Goiio  out  Wiilkiii^,  hiis  slic?"  Tlit!  youtli's  eyes  fol- 
lowed ill  tlu^  samo  (lirrctioii.     "  Which  way  has  slu?  gone?" 

"I  don't  know  exactly  wliieli  path  sho  may  have  taken." 
l»ates's  words  grew  more  formal  the  harder  ho  felt  himsidf 
pressed. 

'4\'ith!  "  Imrst  out  the  young  man — ^'Macadamised  road, 
don't  you  nu'an?  Tiiere's  about  as  nuudi  of  one  as  tlie 
other  on  tliis  here  hill." 

"I  meant,"  said  Bates,  "that  I  didn't  know  where  sho 


was. 


)j 


His  trouble  esoai)ed  somewhat  with  his  voieo  as  ho  said 
this  Avith  irritation. 

The  youth  looked  at  him  euri(msly,  and  with  some  ineipi- 
cnt  sympathy.  After  a  minute's  reflection  he  asked,  touch- 
ing his  forehead: 

"She  ain't  weak  here,  is  she — like  the  old  lady?" 

"Nothing  of  the  sort,"  exclaimed  l^ates,  indignantly. 
The  bare  idea  cost  him  a  pang.  Until  this  moment  he  had 
been  angry  with  the  girl;  he  was  still  angry,  but  a  slight 
modification  took  place.  He  felt  with  her  against  all 
possible  imputations. 

"All  right  in  the  headpiece,  is  she?"  reiterated  the 
other  more  lightly. 

"Very  intelligent,"  replied  Bates.  "I  have  taught  her 
myself.  She  is  remarkably  intelligent."  The  young  man's 
sensitive  spirits,  which  had  suffered  slight  depression  from 
contact  with  Bates's  perturbation,  now  recovered  entirely. 

"Oh,  Glorianna!"  he  cried  in  irrepressible  anticipation. 
"  Let  this  very  intelligent  young  lady  come  on !  Why  " — 
in  an  explanatory  way — "  if  I  saw  as  much  as  a  female 
dress  hanging  on  a  clothes-line  out  to  dry,  I'm  in  that  state 
of  mind  I'd  adore  it  properly." 

If  Bates  had  been  sure  that  the  girl  would  return  safely 
he  would  perhaps  have  been  as  well  pleased  that  she 
should  not  return  in  time  to  meet  the  proposed  adoration ; 
as  it  was,  he  was  far  too  ill  at  ease  concerning  her  not  to 
desire  her  advent  as  ardently  as  did  the  naive  youth.     The 


46 


WHAT  NEC  ESS /TV  KNOWS 


[book  I 


first   feeling   made   his   manner   severe;    the   second   con- 
strained him  to  say  he  supposed  she  woukl  shortly  appear. 

His  mind  was  a  good  deal  confounded,  but  if  he  supposed 
anything  it  was  that,  having  wakened  to  find  herself  left 
behind  by  the  boat,  she  had  walked  away  from  the  house 
in  an  access  of  anger  and  disaj)pointment,  and  he  expected 
her  to  return  soon,  because  he  did  not  think  she  had  cour- 
age or  resolution  to  go  very  far  alone.  Underneath  this 
was  the  uneasy  fear  that  her  courage  and  resolution  might 
take  her  fartlier  into  danger  than  was  at  all  desirable,  but 
he  stifled  the  fear. 

When  he  went  in  he  told  the  company,  in  a  few  matter- 
of-fact  words,  of  liis  partner's  death,  and  the  object  of  the 
excursion  from  which  they  had  seen  him  return.  He  also 
mentioned  tliat  his  aunt's  companion,  tlie  dead  man's  child, 
had,  it  appeared,  gone  off  into  the  woods  that  morning — 
this  was  by  way  of  apology  that  she  was  not  there  to  cook 
for  them,  but  he  took  occasion  to  ask  if  tliey  had  seen  her 
on  the  hill.  As  they  had  come  down  the  least  difficult 
way  and  had  not  met  her,  he  concluded  that  she  had  not 
endeavoured  to  go  far  afield,  and  tried  to  dismiss  his  anxi- 
ety and  enjoy  his  guests  in  his  own  way. 

Hospitality,  even  in  its  simplest  form,  is  more  often  a 
matter  of  amiable  pride  than  of  sincere  unselfishness,  but 
it  is  not  a  form  of  pride  with  which  people  are  apt  to  quar- 
rel. Bates,  when  he  found  liimself  conversing  with  scien- 
tific men  of  gentle  manners,  was  resolved  to  sliow  himself 
above  the  ordinary  farmer  of  that  locality.  He  went  to  the 
barrel  where  the  summer's  eggs  had  been  packed  in  soft 
sand,  and  took  out  one  apiece  for  the  assembled  company. 
He  packed  the  oven  with  large  potatoes.  He  put  on  an 
excellent  supply  of  tea  to  boil.  The  travellers,  who,  in 
fact,  had  had  their  ordinary  breakfast  some  hours  before, 
made  but  feeble  remonstrances  against  these  preparations, 
remonstrances  which  only  caused  Bates  to  make  more 
ample  provision.  He  brought  out  a  large  paper  bag 
labelled,  "patent  self-raising  pancake  meal,"  and  a  small 


CHAP.  V] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


47 


piece  of  fat  pork.  Here  he  was  obliged  to  stoj)  and  confess 
liimself  in  need  of  culinary  skill;  he  looked  at  the  men, 
not  doubting  that  he  could  obtain  it  from  them. 

"The  riiiladelphian  can  do  it  better,"  said  one.  This 
was  corroborated  by  the  others.  "Call  Ilarkness,"  they 
cried,  and  at  the  same  time  they  called  Harkness  them- 
selves. 

The  young  American  opened  the  door  and  came  in  in  a 
very  leisurely,  not  to  say  langu  d,  manner.  He  took  in  the 
situation  at  a  glance  without  asking  a  question.  "But," 
said  he,  "are  we  not  to  wait  for  the  intelligent  young  lady? 
Female  intelligence  can  nuike  the  finer  pancake." 

The  surveyors  manifested  some  curiosity.  "What  do 
you  know  about  a  young  lady?  "  they  asked. 

"The  young  lady  of  the  house,"  replied  Harkness. 
"Hasn't  /ie" — referring  to  Bates — "told  you  all  about  her? 
The  domestic  divinity  who  has  just  happened  to  get  mislaid 
this  morning.  I  saw  him  looking  over  the  wood  pile  to 
see  if  she  had  fallen  behind  it,  but  she  hadn't." 

"It  is  only  a  few  days  since  her  father  died,"  said  the 
senior  of  the  party  gravely. 

"And  so,"  went  on  the  young  man,  "she  has  very  prop- 
erly given  these  few  days  to  inconsolable  grief.  But  now 
our  visit  is  just  timed  to  comfort  and  enliven  her,  voliy  is 
she  not  here  to  be  comforted  and  enlivened?  " 

No  one  answered,  and,  as  the  speaker  was  slowly  mak- 
ing his  way  toward  the  frying-pan,  no  one  seemed  really 
ai)i)rehensive  that  he  would  keep  them  waiting.  The  youth 
had  an  oval,  almost  childish  face ;  his  skin  was  dark,  clear, 
and  softly  coloured  as  any  girl's;  his  hair  fell  in  black, 
loose  curls  over  his  forehead.  He  was  tall,  slender  with- 
out being  thin,  very  supple;  but  his  languid  attitudes  fell 
short  of  grace,  and  were  only  tolerable  because  they  were 
coniic.  When  he  reached  out  his  hand  for  the  handle  of 
the  frying-pan  he  held  the  attention  of  the  whole  company 
by  virtue  of  his  office,  and  his  mind,  to  Bates's  annoy- 
ance, was  still  running  on  the  girl. 


48 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  I 


"Is  slie  fond  of  going  out  walking  alone?  "  he  asked. 

"How  could  slie  be  fond  of  walking  when  there's  no 
place  to  walk?''  Bates  spoke  roughly.  "Besides,  she  has 
too  much  work  to  do.'' 

"  Ever  lort  her  before?  " 

"No,"  said  Bates.  It  would  have  been  perfectly  un- 
bearable to  \rr^  pride  that  these  ^itrangers  should  guess  his 
real  uneasiness  or  its  cause,  so  he  talked  as  if  the  fact  of 
the  girl's  long  absence  was  not  in  any  way  remarkable. 

Having  mixed  a  batter  the  American  sliced  pork  fat  into 
the  hot  pan  and  was  instantly  obscured  from  view  by  the 
smoke  thereof.  In  a  minute  his  face  appeared  above  it 
like  the  face  of  a  genius. 

"You  will  observe,  gentlemen,"  he  cried  without  bash- 
fulness,  "that  I  now  perform  the  eminently  interesting 
operation  of  dropping  cakes — one,  two,  three.  May  the 
intelligent  young  lady  return  to  eat  them !  " 

No  one  laughed,  but  his  companions  smiled  patiently  at 
his  antics — a  patience  born  of  sitting  in  a  very  hot,  steamy 
room  after  weeks  in  the  open  air. 

"You  are  a  cook,"  remarked  Bates. 

The  youth  bent  his  long  body  towards  him  at  a  sudden 
angle.  "  Born  a  cook — dentist  by  profession — by  choice  a 
vagabond." 

"Dentist?  "  said  Bates  curiously. 

"At  your  service,  sir." 

"He  is  really  a  dentist,"  said  one  of  the  surveyors  with 
sleepy  amusement.  "  He  carries  his  forceps  round  in  his 
vest  pocket." 

"  I  lost  them  when  I  scrambled  head  first  down  this  gen- 
tleman's macadamised  road  this  morning,  but  if  you  want  a 
tooth  out  I  can  use  the  tongs." 

"My  teeth  are  all  sound,"  said  Bates. 

"Thank  the  Lord  for  that!"  the  young  man  answered 
■with  an  emphatic  piety  which,  for  all  that  appeared,  might 
have  been  perfectly  sincere. 

"And  the  young  lady?  "  he  asked  after  a  minute. 


CHAP.  V] 


WHAT  NECESSny  KNOWS 


49 


Inta 


L-ed 
iglit 


"  What?  " 

"The  young  Lidy's  teeth — the  teeth  of  the  intelligent 
young  lady — the  intelligent  teeth  of  the  young  lady — are 
they  sound?  " 

"Yes." 

He  sighed  deeply.  "And  to  think,"  he  mourned,  "that 
he  should  have  casually  lost  \\qv  jast  this  morning!  " 

He  spoke  exactly  as  if  the  girl  vvere  a  penknife  or  a 
marble  that  had  rolled  from  Bates's  pocket,  and  the  latter, 
irritated  by  an  inward  fear,  grew  to  hate  the  jester. 

When  the  meal,  which  consisted  of  fried  eggs,  pancakes, 
and  potatoes,  was  eaten,  the  surveyors  spent  an  hour  or 
two  about  the  clearing,  examining  the  nature  of  the  soil 
and  rock.  They  had  something  to  say  to  Bates  concerning 
the  value  of  his  land  which  interested  him  exceedingly. 
Considering  how  rare  it  was  for  him  to  see  any  one,  and 
how  fitted  he  was  to  appreciate  intercourse  with  men  who 
were  manifestly  in  a  higlier  rank  of  life  than  he,  it  would 
not  have  been  surprising  if  he  had  forgotten  Sissy  for  a 
time,  even  if  they  had  had  nothing  to  relate  of  personal 
interest  to  himself.  As  it  was,  even  in  the  excitemct  of 
hearing  what  was  of  im})ortance  concerning  his  own  prop- 
erty, he  did  not  wliolly  forget  her;  but  wdiile  his  visitors 
remained  his  anxiety  was  in  abeyance. 

When  they  were  packing  their  instruments  to  depart,  the 
young  American,  who  had  not  been  with  them  during  the 
morning,  came  and  took  Bates  aside  in  a  friendly  way. 

"See  here,"  he  said,  "were  you  gassing  about  that  young 
lady?    There  ain't  no  young  lady  now,  is  there?  " 

"  I  told  you  " — with  some  superiority  of  manner — "  she  is 
not  a  young  lady ;  she  is  a  working  girl,  an  emigrant's " 

"  Oh,  Glorianna!  "  he  broke  out,  "  girl  or  lady,  what  does  it 
matter  to  me?    Do  you  mean  to  say  you've  really  lost  her?  " 

Tlie  question  was  appalling  to  Bates.  All  the  morning 
he  had  not  dared  to  face  such  a  possibility  and  now  to  have 
the  question  hurled  at  him  with  such  imperative  force  by 
another  was  like  a  terrible  blow.     But  when  a  blow  is  thus 


50 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  I 


I 


1 


dealt  from,  the  outside,  a  man  like  Bates  rallies  all  the 
opposition  of  his  nature  to  repel  it. 

"  Not  at  all  " — his  manner  was  as  stiif  as  ever — "  she  is 
lurking  somewhere  near." 

"Look  here — I've  been  up  the  hill  that  way,  and  that 
way,  and  that  way  " — he  indicated  the  directions  with  his 
hand — "and  I've  been  down  round  the  shore  as  far  as  I 
could  get,  and  I've  had  our  two  dogs  with  me,  who'd 
either  of  them  have  mentioned  it  if  there'd  been  a  stranger 
anywheres  near;  and  she  ain't  here.  An'  if  she's  climbed 
over  the  hill,  she's  a  spunky  one — somewhat  spunkier  than 
/should  think  natural."  He  looked  at  Bates  very  suspi- 
ciously as  he  spoke. 

"Well?" 

"  Well,  my  belief  is  that  there  ain't  no  young  lady,  and 
that  you're  gassing  me." 

"Very  well,"  said  Bates,  and  he  turned  away.  It  was 
offensive  to  him  to  be  accused  of  telling  lies — he  was  not  a 
man  to  give  any  other  name  than  "  lie  "  to  the  trick  attri- 
buted to  him,  or  to  perceive  any  humour  in  the  idea  of  it — 
but  it  was  a  thousand  times  more  offensive  that  this  youth 
should  have  presumed  to  search  for  Sissy  and  to  tell  him 
that  the  search  had  been  vain. 

Horrible  as  the  information  just  given  was,  he  did  not 
more  than  half  believe  it,  and  something  just  said  gave  him 
a  definite  idea  of  hope — the  strange  dogs  had  not  found 
Sissy,  but  the  house-dog,  if  encouraged  to  seek,  would 
certainly  find  her.  He  had  felt  a  sort  of  grudge  against 
the  animal  all  day,  because  he  must  know  which  way  she 
had  gone  and  could  not  tell.  Now  he  resolved  as  soon  as 
the  strangers  were  gone  to  set  the  dog  to  seek  her.  Upon 
this  he  stayed  his  mind. 

The  surveyors  hoped  to  get  a  few  days'  more  work  done 
before  the  winter  put  an  end  to  their  march;  they  deter- 
mined when  thus  stopped  to  turn  down  the  river  valley 
and  take  the  train  for  Quebec.  The  way  they  now  wished 
to  take  lay,  not  in  the  direction  in  which  the  ox-cart  had 


CHAP.  V] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


SI 


■'d 


and 


id  not 
le  liim 
[found 
^vould 
jainst 
ly  slie 
Ion  as 
|Upon 

done 
leter- 
ralley 
rislied 
it  bad 


gone,  but  over  tbe  bills  directly  across  tlie  lake.  Tlie 
scow  belonging  to  tliis  clearing,  on  wliicli  tbey  had  counted, 
was  called  into  requisition. 

The  day  was  still  calm ;  Bates  had  no  objection  to  take 
them  across.  At  any  other  time  he  would  have  had  some 
one  to  leave  in  charge  of  the  place,  but,  especially  as  he 
Avould  be  in  sight  of  the  house  all  the  time,  he  made  no 
difficulty  of  leaving  as  it  was.  He  could  produce  four 
oars,  such  as  they  were,  and  the  way  across  was  traversed 
rapidly. 

"  And  there  ain't  really  a  female  belonging  to  the  place, 
except  the  old  lady,"  said  the  dentist,  addressing  the  as- 
sembled party  upon  the  scow.  "  It  Avas  all  a  tale,  and — 
lay  eye ; — he  took  me  in  completely." 

Probably  he  did  not  give  entire  credence  to  his  own 
words,  and  washed  to  provoke  the  others  to  question  Bates 
further ;  but  they  were  not  now  in  the  same  idle  mood  that 
had  enthralled  them  when,  in  the  morning,  they  had  listened 
to  him  indulgently.  Their  loins  were  girded ;  they  were 
intent  upon  what  they  were  doing  and  what  they  were 
going  to  do.     No  one  but  Bates  paid  heed  to  him. 

Bates  heard  him  clearly  enough,  but,  so  stubbornly  had 
he  set  himself  to  rebuff  this  young  man,  and  so  closely 
was  he  wrapped  in  that  pride  of  reserve  that  makes  a  merit 
of  obstinate  self-reliance,  that  it  never  even  occurred  to  him 
to  answer  or  to  accept  this  last  offer  of  a  fellow-man's 
interest  in  the  search  he  was  just  about  to  undertake. 

He  had  some  hope  that,  if  Sissy  were  skulking  round,  she 
wou  ""  find  it  easier  to  go  back  to  the  house  when  he  was 
absent,  and  that  he  should  find  her  as  usual  on  his  return  ; 
but,  as  he  wrought  at  his  oar  in  returning  across  the  leaden 
water,  looking  up  occasionally  to  make  the  log  house  his 
aim,  and  staring  for  the  most  part  at  the  lone  hills,  under 
the  pine  woods  of  which  his  late  companions  had  dis- 
appeared, his  heart  gradually  grew  more  heavy;  all  the 
more  because  the  cheerfulness  of  their  society  had  buoyed 
up  his  spirit  in  their  presence,  did  it  now  suffer  depression. 


52 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[hook  I 


I 


The  awful  presentiment  began  to  haunt  him  that  lie  would 
not  find  the  girl  that  night, that  he  had  in  grim  reality  "lost 
her."  If  this  were  the  case,  what  a  fool,  what  a  madman, 
he  had  been  to  let  go  the  only  aid  within  his  reach !  He 
stopped  his  rowing  for  a  minute,  and  almost  thought  of 
turning  to  call  the  surveying  party  back  again.  But  no, 
Sissy  might  be — in  all  probability  was — already  in  the 
house ;  in  th;it  case  what  folly  to  have  brought  them  back, 
delaying  their  work  and  incurring  their  anger !  So  he 
reasoned,  and  went  on  towards  home ;  but,  in  truth,  it  was 
not  their  delay  or  displeasure  that  deterred  him  so  much  as 
his  own  pride,  which  loathed  the  thought  of  laying  bare  his 
cause  for  fear  and  distress. 


i     ^ 


CHAPTEll  VI. 

The  day  was  duller  now.  The  sun,  in  passing  into  the 
western  sky,  had  entered  under  thicker  veils  of  vdiite.  The 
film  of  ice  on  tlie  bay,  which  had  melted  in  the  pale  sun- 
beams of  noon,  would  soon  form  again.  The  air  was  grow- 
ing bitterly  cold. 

When  Bates  had  moored  his  boat,  he  went  up  the  hill 
heavily.  The  dog,  which  had  been  shut  in  the  house  to 
guard  it,  leaped  out  when  he  opened  the  door.  Sissy  was 
not  there. 

Bates  went  in  and  found  one  of  her  frocks,  and,  bringing 
it  out,  tried  to  put  the  animal  on  the  scent  of  her  track. 
He  stooped,  and  held  the  garment  under  the  dog's  nose. 
The  dog  sniffed  it,  laid  his  nose  contentedly  on  Bates's  arm, 
looked  up  in  his  face,  and  wagged  his  tail  with  most  annoy- 
ing cheerfulness. 

"  Where  is  she  ?  "  jerked  Bates.  "  Where  is  she  ?  Seek 
her,  good  dog." 

The  dog,  all  alert,  bounded  off  a  little  way  and  returned 
again  with  an  inconsequent  lightness  in  tail  and  eye.  One 
of  his  ears  had  been  torn  in  a  battle  with  the  strange  dogs, 


)0K  I 

ould 
'  lost 
man, 
He 
ht  of 
it  no, 
1  the 
back, 
5o   he 
t  was 
Lich  as 
ire  his 


CHAP,  vi] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


53 


ito  the 
!.  The 
[le  sun- 
5  grow- 

le  hill 
3use  to 
^sy  was 

ringing 
track, 
nose. 

^'s  arm, 
annoy- 

Seek 

^turned 

One 

\q  dogs, 


but  he  was  more  elated  by  the  conflict  tlian  depressed  by 
the  wound.  When  he  came  back,  he  seemed  to  Bates  al- 
most to  smile  as  if  he  said  :  ''It  pleases  me  that  you  should 
pay  me  so  much  attention,  but  as  for  the  girl,  I  know  her 
to  be  satisfactorily  disposed  of."  Bates  did  not  swear  at 
the  animal;  he  was  a  Scotchman,  and  he  would  have  con- 
sidered it  a  sin  to  swear  :  he  did  not  strike  the  dog  eitlier, 
which  he  would  not  have  considered  a  sin  at  all.  He  was 
actually  afraid  to  offend  the  only  living  creature  who  could 
befriend  and  help  him  in  his  search.  Very  patiently  he 
bent  the  dog's  nose  to  the  frock  and  to  the  ground,  begging 
and  commanding  him  to  seek.  At  length  the  dog  trotted 
off  by  a  circuitous  route  up  the  clearing,  and  Bates  followed. 
He  hoped  the  dog  was  really  seeking,  but  feared  he  was 
merely  following  some  fancy  that  by  thus  running  he  would 
be  rid  of  his  master's  solicitude. 

Bates  felt  it  an  odd  thing  that  he  should  be  wandering 
about  with  a  girl's  frock  in  his  hands.  It  was  old,  but  he 
did  not  remember  that  he  had  ever  touched  it  before  or 
noticed  its  material  or  pattern.  He  looked  at  it  fondly 
now,  as  he  held  it  ready  to  renew  the  dog's  memory  if  his 
purpose  should  falter. 

The  dog  went  on  steadily  enough  until  he  got  to  the  edge 
of  the  woods,  where  his  footsteps  made  a  great  noise  on  tlie 
brittle  leaves.  He  kicked  about  in  them  as  if  he  liked  the 
noise  they  made,  but  offered  to  go  no  farther.  Bates  looked 
at  them  and  knew  that  the  dog  was  not  likely  to  keep  the 
scent  among  them  if  the  girl  had  gone  that  way.  He  stood 
erect,  looking  up  the  drear  expanse  of  the  hill,  and  the  des- 
perate nature  of  his  situation  came  upon  him.  He  had  been 
slow — slow  to  take  it  in,  repelling  it  with  all  the  obstinacy 
of  an  obstinate  mind.  iSTow  he  saw  clearly  that  the  girl  had 
fled,  and  he  was  powerless  to  pursue  at  the  distance  she 
might  now  have  reached,  the  more  so  as  he  could  not  tell 
which  way  she  had  taken.  He  would  have  left  his  live 
stock,  but  the  helpless  old  woman,  whose  life  depended  on 
his  care,  he  dared  not  leave.     He  stood  and  considered,  his 


54 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[hook  I 


mind  workinj^  rapidly  under  a  stress  of  emotion  such  as 
perhaps  it  had  never  known  before — certainly  not  since 
the  first  strong  impulses  of  his  youth  had  died  within  his 
cautious  heart. 

Then  he  remembered  that  Sissy  had  walked  about  the 
previous  day,  and  perhaps  the  dog  was  only  on  the  scent 
of  yesterday's  meanderings.  He  took  the  animal  along  the 
top  of  the  open  space,  urging  him  to  find  another  track,  and 
at  last  the  dog  ran  down  again  by  the  side  of  the  stream. 
Bates  followed  to  the  vicinity  of  the  house,  no  wiser  than 
he  had  been  at  first. 

The  dog  stopped  under  the  end  window  of  the  house 
where  old  Cameron  fell,  and  scratched  among  the  leaves  on 
the  fresh  fallen  earth.  Bates  was  reminded  of  the  associa- 
tions of  the  fatal  spot.  He  thought  of  his  old  friend's  death- 
bed, of  the  trust  that  had  there  been  confided  to  him.  Had 
he  been  unfaithful  to  that  trust  ?  With  the  impatience  of 
sharp  pain,  he  called  the  dog  again  to  the  door  of  the  house, 
and  again  from  that  starting-point  tried  to  make  him  seek 
the  missing  one.  He  did  this,  not  because  he  had  much 
hope  in  the  dog  now,  but  because  he  had  no  other  hope. 

This  time  the  dog  stood  by,  sobered  by  his  master's  sober- 
ness, but  looking  with  teasing  expectancy,  ready  to  do  what- 
ever w^as  required  if  he  might  only  know  what  that  was. 
To  Bates,  who  was  only  anxious  to  act  at  the  dumb  thing's 
direction,  this  expectancy  was  galling.  He  tore  off  a  part 
of  the  dress  and  fastened  it  to  the  dog's  collar.  He  com- 
manded him  to  carry  it  to  her  in  such  excited  tones  that  the 
old  woman  heard,  and  fumbled  her  way  out  of  the  door  to 
see  what  was  going  on.  And  Bates  stood  between  the  dumb 
animal  and  the  aged  wreck  of  womanhood,  and  felt  horribly 
alone. 

Clearly  the  sagacious  creature  not  only  did  not  know 
where  to  find  the  girl,  but  knew  that  she  was  gone  where 
he  could  not  find  her,  for  he  made  no  effort  to  carry  his  burden 
a  step.  Bates  took  it  from  him  at  last,  and  the  dog,  whose 
feelings  had  apparently  been  much  perturbed,  went  down 


CHAP.  VIl] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KATOIVS 


55 


to  tlie  water's  edge,  and,  standing  looking  over  the  lake, 
barked  tliere  till  darkness  fell. 

The  night  came,  bnt  the  girl  did  not  come.  Bates  made 
a  great  torch  of  pine  boughs  and  resin,  and  this  he  lit  and 
hoisted  on  a  pole  fixed  in  the  ground,  so  that  if  she  was 
seeking  to  return  to  her  home  in  the  darkness  she  might  be 
guided  by  it.  He  hoped  also  that,  by  some  chance,  the  sur- 
veying party  might  see  it  and  know  that  it  was  a  signal  of 
distress ;  but  he  looked  for  their  camp-tire  on  the  opposite 
hills,  and,  not  seeing  it,  felt  only  too  sure  that  they  had 
gone  out  of  sight  of  his.  He  fed  and  watched  his  torch  all 
night.  Snow  began  to  fall ;  as  he  looked  up  it  seemed  that 
the  flame  made  a  globe  of  light  in  the  thick  atmosphere, 
around  which  closed  a  low  vault  of  visible  darkness.  From 
out  of  this  darkness  the  flakes  were  falling  thickly.  When 
the  day  broke  he  was  still  alone. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


part 
com- 
itthe 
lor  to 
Idumb 
rribly 

Iknow 

^here 

irden 

^hose 

Idown 


WiiEX  Saul  and  the  oxen  were  once  fairly  started,  they 
l)lodded  on  steadily.  The  track  lay  some  way  from  the 
river  and  above  it,  through  the  gap  in  the  hills.  Little  of 
the  hills  did  Saul  see,  for  he  was  moving  under  trees  all 
the  way,  and  when,  before  noon,  he  descended  into  the  plain 
on  the  other  side,  he  was  still  for  a  short  time  under  a  can- 
opy of  interlacing  boughs.  There  was  no  road ;  the  trees 
were  notched  to  show  the  track.  In  such  forests  there  is 
little  obstruction  of  brushwood,  and  over  knoll  and  hollow, 
between  the  trunks,  the  oxen  laboured  on.  Saul  sat  on  the 
front  ledge  of  the  cart  to  balance  it  the  better.  The  coffin, 
wedged  in  with  the  potash  barrel,  lay  pretty  still  as  long  as 
they  kept  on  the  soft  soil  of  the  forest,  but  when,  about  one 
o'clock,  the  team  emerged  upon  a  corduroy  road,  made  of 
logs  lying  side  by  side  across  the  path,  the  jolting  often 
jerked  the  barrel  out  of  place,  and  then  Saul  would  go  to 


56 


WHAT  NEC  ESS /TV  KNOWS 


[hook  I 


i 


the  back  of  the  cart  and  jerk  it  and  the  coffin  into  position 
again. 

The  forest  was  behind  them  now.  This  h)g  road  was 
constructed  across  a  large  tract  which  sometime  since  had 
been  cleared  by  a  forest  fir(^,  but  was  now  covered  again  by 
tliick  brush  standing  eight  or  ten  feet  liigh.  One  could  see 
little  on  either  side  the  road  except  the  brown  and  grey 
twigs  of  the  siqdings  that  grew  by  tlie  million,  packed  close 
together.  The  wiiy  had  been  cut  among  them,  yet  they 
were  fondng  their  sharp  slioots  up  again  between  the  seams 
of  tlie  corduroy,  and  where,  here  and  there,  a  log  had  rotted 
they  came  up  thickly.  The  ground  was  low,  and  would 
have  been  wet  about  the  bushes  had  it  not  been  frozen. 
Above,  the  sky  was  white.  Saul  could  see  nothing  but  his 
straight  road  before  and  behind,  the  impenetrable  thicket 
and  the  white  sky.     It  was  a  lonely  thing  thus  to  journey. 

While  he  had  been  under  the  forest,  with  an  occasional 
squirrel  or  chi})munk  to  arrest  his  gaze,  and  with  all  things 
as  familiar  to  sight  as  tlie  environments  of  the  house  in 
which  he  was  accustomed  to  live,  Saul  had  felt  the  vigour 
of  the  morning,  and  eaten  his  cold  fat  bacon,  sitting  on  the 
cart,  without  discontent.  But  now  it  was  afternoon — 
which,  we  all  know,  brings  a  somewhat  more  depressing  air 
— and  the  budless  thickets  stood  so  close,  so  still,  Saul 
became  conscious  that  his  load  was  a  corpse.  He  had 
hoi)ed,  in  a  dull  way,  to  fall  in  with  a  companion  on  this 
made  road ;  the  chances  were  against  it,  and  the  chances 
prevailed.  Saul  ate  more  bread  and  bacon.  He  had  to 
walk  now,  and  often  to  give  the  cart  a  push,  so  that  the 
way  was  laborious ;  but,  curiously  enough,  it  was  not  the 
labour  he  objected  to,  but  tlie  sound  of  his  own  voice.  All 
the  way  the  silent  thicket  was  listening  to  his  "Gee-e,  gee; 
haw  then";  —  "yo-hoi-eest"  ;  yet,  as  he  and  his  oxen  pro- 
gressed further  into  the  quiet  afternoon,  he  gradually  grew 
more  and  more  timid  at  the  shouts  he  must  raise.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  the  dead  man  was  listening,  or  that 
unknown  shapes  or  essences  might  be   disturbed   by  his 


CHAP.  VIl] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOIVS 


57 


air 

aul 

lad 

his 

ces 
to 
;lie 
:lie 
.11 
se; 
iro- 

It 
liat 

lis 


voice  ami  rush  out  from  the  thicket  upon  him.  Sucli  fears 
he  had — wordless  fears,  su(!h  as  men  never  repeat  and  soon 
forget.  Hough,  dull,  liardy  woodman  as  he  was,  he  felt 
now  as  a  child  feels  in  the  dark,  afraid  of  he  knew  not 
what. 

The  way  was  very  weary.  He  trudged  on  beside  the 
cart.  Something  went  wrong  with  one  of  his  boots,  and  he 
stopped  the  oxen  in  order  to  take  it  off.  The  animals,  thus 
checked,  stood  absolutely  still,  hanging  down  their  heads  in 
an  attitude  of  rest.  The  man  went  behind  the  cart  and  sat 
on  its  edge.  He  leaned  on  the  end  of  the  cotlin  as  he 
examined  the  boot.  "When  that  was  put  right  he  could  not 
deny  himself  the  luxury  of  a  few  minutes'  rest.  The  oxen, 
with  hanging  heads,  looked  as  if  they  had  gone  to  sleep. 
The  man  hung  his  head  also,  and  might  have  been  dozing 
from  his  appearance.  He  was  i  ?t  asleep,  however.  What 
mental  machinery  he  had  began  to  work  more  freely,  r.nd 
he  actually  did  something  that  might  be  called  thinking  on 
the  one  subject  that  had  lain  as  a  dormant  matter  of  curi- 
osity in  his  head  all  day — namely,  how  the  girl  would  act 
when  she  woke  to  find  the  cart  was  actually  gone  and  she 
left  behind.  He  had  seen  old  Cameron  die,  and  heard 
Bates  promise  to  do  his  best  for  his  daughter ;  he  remem- 
bered her  tears  and  pleading  on  the  preceding  day;  the 
situation  came  to  him  now,  as  perceptions  come  to  dull 
minds,  with  force  that  had  gathered  v/itli  the  lapse  of  time. 
He  had  not  the  refinement  and  acuteness  of  m"  d  neces- 
sary to  make  him  understand  the  disinterested  element  in 
Bates's  tyranny,  and  while  he  sympathised  cunningly  with 
the  selfishness  of  which,  in  his  mind,  he  accused  Bates,  it 
seemed  to  him  that  the  promise  to  the  dead  was  broken, 
and  he  thought  upon  such  calamities  as  might  befall  in 
token  of  the  dead  man's  revenge. 

How  awfully  silent  it  was  !  There  was  no  breath  in  the 
chill,  still  air ;  there  was  no  sound  of  life  in  all  the  dark, 
close  brushwood;  the  oxen  slept;  and  Saul,  appalled  by 
the  silence  that  had  come  with  his  silence,  appalled  to  real- 


58 


WHAT  NEC  ESS /TV  K'NOIVS 


[hook  I 


Si       a 


iso  moro  vividly  tlian  over  tliat  lio,  and  lie  alone,  had  been 
the  insti^'ator  of  -oicu  in  all  that  n^gion,  was  cowed  into 
thinking  tliat,  if  the  dc^ad  could  rise  from  the  j^rave  for 
pur^joses  of  revengt^,  how  luucii  more  easily  could  lu;  rise 
now  from  so  (a'ude  a  cofiin  as  he  himself  had  helpetl  to 
construct  for  him ! 

It  was  in  this  absolute  silence  that  he  heard  a  sound. 
lie  heard  tiie  dead  man  turn  in  his  coffin  !  Jle  heard,  and 
did  not  doubt  his  hearing;  it  was  not  a  thing  that  he  could 
easily  be  deceived  about  as  he  sat  with  his  ell)ow  on  the 
coffin.  He  sat  there  not  one  instant  longer ;  the  next 
moment  he  was  twenty  fc^et  away,  standing  half-hidden  in 
the  edge  of  the  brushwood,  staring  at  the  cart  and  the 
coffin,  r(!ady  to  plunge  into  the  icy  swamp  and  hide  farther 
among  the  young  trees  if  occasion  required.  Occasion  did 
not  re([uire.  The  oxen  dozed  on ;  the  cart,  the  barrel,  and 
the  coffin  stood  just  as  he  had  left  them. 

Perhaps  for  five  minutes  the  frightimed  man  was  still. 
Gradually  his  muscles  relaxed,  and  he  ceased  to  stand  with 
limbs  and  features  all  drawn  in  horror  away  from  the 
coffin.  He  next  pulled  back  his  foot  from  the  icy  marsh ; 
but  even  then,  having  regained  his  e(piilibrium  on  the  road, 
he  had  not  decided  what  to  do,  and  it  took  him  some  time 
longer  to  turn  over  the  situation  in  his  mind.  He  had 
heard  the  dead  man  move ;  he  was  terribly  frightened ; 
still,  it  might  have  been  a  mistake,  and,  any  way,  the  most 
disagreeable  course,  clearly,  was  to  remain  there  till  night- 
fall. He  had  run  backward  in  his  first  alarm ;  so,  to  get 
to  the  nearest  habitation,  it  would  be  necessary  to  pass  the 
cart  on  the  road,  even  if  he  left  it  there.  Had  any  further 
manifestation  of  vitality  appeared  on  the  part  of  the  corpse 
he  would  have  felt  justified  in  running  back  into  the  forest, 
but  this  was  an  extreme  measure.  He  did  not  wish  to  go 
near  the  cart,  but  to  turn  his  back  upon  it  seemed  almost 
as  fearsome.  He  stood  facing  it,  as  a  man  faces  a  fierce 
dog,  knowing  that  if  he  turns  and  runs  the  dog  \\\\\  pursue. 
He  supposed  that  as  long  as  he  stared  at  the  coffin  and  saw 


3j      ? 


CHAI'.  VIl] 


WHAT  N/CCKSS/TV  kWOli'S 


59 


pse 
ist, 
go 
lost 
Irce 
lue. 
law 


nothing  ho  c^oiild  he  sure  that  the  deeeascd  remained  inside, 
hut  tliat  if  he  gave  the  ghost  opportunity  to  get  out  on  the 
sly  it  iniglit  afterwards  eonie  at  liini  from  any  jjoint  of  tlie 
compass,  lie  was  an  ignorant  man,  with  a  vulgar  mind; 
he  liad  somo  reverence  for  a  corpse,  but  none  whatever  for 
a  ghost.  His  mind  had  undergone  a  change  concerning  the 
dead  the  moment  he  had  heard  him  nujve,  and  lie  looked 
upon  his  charge  now  as  e(iually  desi)icable  and  gruesonu?. 

After  some  further  delay  he  discovered  that  the  course 
least  disagreeable  would  be  to  drive  the  oxen  with  his  voi(!e 
and  walk  as  far  behind  the  cart  as  he  now  was,  keeping  the 
pine  box  with  four  nails  on  its  lid  well  in  view.  Accord- 
ingly, making  a  great  effort  to  encourage  himself  to  break 
the  silen(!e,  he  raised  his  shout  in  the  accustomed  command 
to  the  oxen,  and  after  it  had  been  repeated  once  or  twice, 
they  strained  at  the  cart  and  set  themselves  to  the  road 
again.  They  did  not  go  as  fast  ns  when  the  goad  was 
within  reach  of  their  flanks;  or  rather,  they  went  more 
slowly  than  then,  for  ''  fast "  was  not  a  word  that  could 
have  been  ap})lied  to  their  progress  before.  Yet  they 
went  on  the  whole  steadily,  and  the  "  Gee "  and  "  Haw " 
of  the  gruff  voice  behind  guided  them  straight  as  surely  as 
bit  and  rein. 

At  length  it  could  be  seen  in  the  distance  that  the  road 
turned,  and  round  this  turning  another  human  hgure  came 
in  sight.  Perhaps  in  all  his  life  Saul  never  experienced 
greater  pleasure  in  meeting  another  man  than  he  did  now, 
yet  his  exterior  remained  gruff  and  unperturbed.  The  only 
notice  that  he  appeared  to  take  of  his  fellow-man  was  to 
adjust  his  pace  so  that,  as  the  other  came  nearer  the  cart 
in  front,  Saul  caught  up  with  it  in  the  rear.  At  last  they 
met  close  behind  it,  and  then,  as  nature  prompted,  they 
both  stopped. 

The  last  comer  upon  the  desolate  scene  was  a  largo,  hulk- 
ing boy.  He  had  been  j)lodding  heavily  with  a  sack  upon 
his  back.  As  he  stopped,  he  set  this  upon  the  ground  and 
wiped  his  brow. 


6o 


H^NAT  ATECESS/ry  KNOWS 


[hook  I 


I 


The  boy  was  French ;  but  Saul,  as  a  native  of  the  prov- 
ince, talked  French  about  as  well  as  he  did  English — 
that  is  to  say,  very  ba;lly.  He  could  not  have  written  a 
word  of  either.  The  conversation  went  on  in  the  patois  of 
the  district. 

"  What  is  in  the  box  ?  "  asked  the  boy,  observing  that 
the  carter's  eyes  rested  uneasily  upon  it. 

"Old  Cameron  died  at  our  place  the  day  before  yester- 
day," answered  Saul,  not  with  desire  to  evade,  but  because 
it  did  not  seem  necessary  to  answer  more  directly. 

"What  of?"  The  boy  looked  at  the  box  with  more 
interest  now. 

"  He  died  of  a  fall  "—briefly. 

The  questioner  looked  at  the  pinewood  box  now  with  con- 
siderable solicitude.  "  ])id  his  feet  swell  ?  "  he  asked.  As 
Saul  did  not  immediately  assent,  he  added — "When  the 
old  M.  Didier  died,  his  feet  swelled." 

"  What  do  you  think  of  the  coffin  ? "  Saul  said  this 
eyeing  it  as  if  he  were  critically  considering  it  as  a  piece 
of  workmanship. 

"  M.  Didier  made  a  much  better  one  for  his  little  child," 
replied  the  boy. 

"  If  he  did,  neither  Mr.  Bates  nor  me  is  handy  at  this  sort 
of  work.  We  haven't  been  used  to  it.  It's  a  rough  thing. 
Touch  it.     You  will  see  it's  badly  made." 

He  gained  his  object.  The  boy  fingered  the  coffin,  and 
although  he  did  not  praise  the  handiwork,  it  seemed  to 
Saul  that  some  horrid  spell  was  broken  when  human  hands 
had  again  touched  the  box  and  no  evil  had  resulted. 

"  Why  didn't  you  bury  him  at  home  ? "  asked  the  boy. 
"He  was  English." 

"Mr.  Bates  has  strict  ideas,  though  he  is  English.  He 
wanted  it  done  proper,  in  a  graveyard,  by  a  minister.  He 
has  wrote  to  the  minister  at  St.  Hennon's  and  sent  money 
for  the  burying — Mr.  Bates,  he  is  always  particular." 

"You  are  not  going  to  St.  Hennon's?"  ,said  the  boy 
incredulously. 


CHAP.  VIIl] 


WHAT  NEC  ESS /TV  KNOWS 


6i 


"I'll  stay  to-night  at  Tiin-ifs,  and  go  on  in  the  morning. 
It's  four  (lays'  Wc'ilk  for  me  and  the  cattle  to  go  and  come, 
but  I  shall  take  back  a  man  to  cut  the  trees." 

"  Why  not  send  him  by  the  new  railroad  ?  " 

"It  does  not  stop  at  Turrifs." 

"  Yes ;  they  stop  at  the  cross-roads  now,  not  more  than 
three  miles  from  Turrifs.  There's  a  new  station,  and  an 
Englishman  set  to  keep  it.  I've  just  brought  this  sack  of 
flour  from  there.     M.  Didier  had  it  come  by  the  cars." 

"  When  do  they  pass  to  St.  Hennon's  ?  "  asked  Saul  medi- 
tatively,— "  But  anyway,  the  Englishman  wouldn't  like  to 
take  in  a  coffin." 

"They  pass  some  time  in  the  night;  and  he  must  take 
it  in  if  you  write  on  it  where  it's  going.  It's  not  his  busi- 
ness to  say  what  the  cars  will  take,  if  you  pay." 

"Well,"  .-aid  Saul.  "Good-day.  Yo-hoist!  Yo,  yo, 
ho-hoist ! " 

It  did  not  seem  to  him  necessary  to  state  whether  he  was, 
or  was  not,  going  to  take  the  advice  offered.  The  straining 
and  creaking  of  the  cart,  his  shouts  to  the  oxen,  would  have 
obliterated  any  further  query  the  boy  might  have  made. 
He  had  fairly  moved  off  when  the  boy  also  took  up  his 
burden  and  trudged  on  the  other  way. 


Le 


CHArTER  VIII. 

WiiEN"  the  blueberry  bushes  are  dry,  all  the  life  in  them 
sucked  into  their  roots  against  another  summer,  the  tops 
turn  a  rich,  brownish  red ;  at  this  time,  also,  wild  bramble 
thickets  have  many  a  crimson  stalk  that  gives  colour  to 
their  mass,  and  Uie  twigs  that  rise  above  the  white  trunks 
of  birch  trees  are  not  grey,  but  brown. 

Round  the  new  railway  station  at  the  cross-roads  near 
Turrifs  Settlement,  the  low-lying  land,  for  miles  and  miles, 
was  covered  v/ith  blueberry  bushes ;  bramble  thickets  were 


I 


62 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  I 


ni 


I  ; 


here  and  there ;  and  where  the  land  rose  a  little,  in  irregu- 
lar places,  young  birch  woods  stood.  If  the  snow  had 
sprinkled  here,  as  it  had  upon  the  hills  the  night  before, 
there  was  no  sign  of  it  now.  The  warm  colour  of  the  land 
seemed  to  glow  against  the  dulness  of  the  afternoon,  not 
with  the  sparkle  and  brightness  which  colour  has  in  sun- 
shine, but  with  the  glow  of  a  sleeping  ember  among  its  ashes. 
Kound  the  west  there  was  metallic  blue  colouring  upon  the 
cloud  vault.  This  colouring  was  not  like  a  light  upon  the 
cloud,  it  was  like  a  shadow  upon  it ;  yet  it  was  not  grey, 
but  blue.  Where  the  long  straight  road  from  Turrifs  and 
the  long  straight  road  from  the  hills  crossed  each  other, 
and  were  crossed  by  the  unprotected  railway  track  with 
its  endless  rows  of  tree-trunks  serving  as  telegraph  poles, 
the  new  station  stood. 

It  was  merely  a  small  barn,  newly  built  of  pinewood, 
divided  into  two  rooms — one  serving  as  a  store-room  for 
goods,  the  other  as  waiting-room,  ticket  office,  and  living- 
room  of  the  station-master.  The  station-master,  who  was, 
in  fact,  master,  clerk,  and  porter  in  one,  was  as  new  to  his 
surroundings  as  the  little  fresh-smelling  pinewood  house. 
He  Avas  a  young  Englishman,  and  at  the  first  glance  it  could 
be  seen  he  had  not  long  been  living  in  his  present  place. 
He  had,  indeed,  not  yet  given  up  shaving  himself,  and  his 
clothes,  although  rough,  warm,  and  suited  to  his  occupation, 
still  suggested,  not  homespun,  but  an  outfit  bought  of  a 
tailor. 

It  was  about  four  o'clock  on  that  November  afternoon 
when  the  new  official  of  the  new  station  looked  out  at  the 
dark  red  land  and  the  bright-tinted  cloud.  It  was  intensely 
cold.  The  ruts  of  the  roads,  which  were  not  made  of  logs 
here,  were  frozen  stiff.  The  young  man  stood  a  minute  at 
his  door  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  sniffed  the  frost,  and 
turned  in  with  an  air  of  distaste.  A  letter  that  had  been 
brought  him  by  the  morning  train  lay  on  his  table,  addressed 
to  "Alec  Trenholme,  Esq."  It  had  seen  vicissitudes,  and 
been  to  several  addresses  in  different  cities,  before  it  had 


CHAP.  VIIl] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


63 


been  finally  readdressed  to  this  new  station.  Perhaps  its 
owner  had  not  found  the  path  to  fortui  3  which  he  sought 
in  the  New  World  as  easily  accessible  as  he  had  expected. 
AVhether  he  had  now  found  it  or  not,  he  set  himself  to  that 
which  he  had  found  in  manly  fashion. 

Coming  in  from  the  cold  without,  and  shutting  himself 
in,  as  he  supposed,  for  the  evening,  he  wisely  determined  to 
alleviate  the  peculiar  feeling  of  cold  and  desolation  which 
the  weather  was  fitted  to  induce  by  having  an  early  tea. 
He  set  his  pan  upon  a  somewhat  rusty  stove  and  put  gen- 
erous slices  of  ham  therein  to  fry.  He  made  tea,  and  then 
set  forth  his  store  of  bread,  his  plates  and  cup,  upon  the 
table,  with  some  apparent  effort  to  make  the  meal  look 
attractive.  The  frying  ham  soon  smelt  delicious,  and  while 
it  was  growing  brown.  Alec  Trenholme  read  his  letter  for 
the  fifth  time  that  day.  It  was  not  a  letter  that  he  liked, 
but,  since  the  morning  train,  only  two  human  beings  had 
passed  by  the  station,  and  the  young  station-master  would 
have  read  and  re-read  a  more  disagreeable  epistle  than  the 
one  which  had  fallen  to  his  lot.  It  was  dated  from"  a  place 
called  Chellaston,  and  was  from  his  brother.  It  was  couched 
in  terms  of  affec-tion,  and  contained  a  long,  closely  reasoned 
argument,  with  the  tenor  of  which  it  would  ?'5em  the  reader 
did  not  agree,  for  he  smiled  at  it  scornfully. 

He  had  not  re-read  his  letter  and  dished  his  ham  before 
sounds  on  the  road  assured  him  an  ox-cart  was  approaching, 
and,  with  an  eagerness  to  see  who  it  might  be  which  cannot 
be  comprehended  by  those  who  have  not  lived  in  isolation, 
he  went  out  to  see  Saul  and  his  cattle  coming  at  an  even 
pace  down  the  road  from  the  hills.  The  cart  ran  more 
easily  now  that  the  road  was  of  the  better  sort,  and  the 
spirits  of  both  man  and  beasts  were  so  raised  by  the  sight 
of  a  house  that  they  all  seemed  in  better  form  for  work  than 
when  in  the  middle  of  tlieir  journey. 

Alec  Trenholme  waited  till  the  cart  drew  up  between  his 
door  and  the  railway  track,  and  regarded  i;he  giant  stature 
of  the  lumberman,  his  small,  round  head,  red  cheeks,  and 


i 


64 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  I 


\   I 


!  ; 


luxuriant  whiskers,  with  that  intense  but  unreflecting  inter- 
est which  the  lonely  bestow  upon  unexpected  company.  He 
looked  also,  with  an  eye  to  his  own  business,  at  the  contents 
of  the  cart,  and  gave  the  man  a  civil  "  good  evening." 

As  he  spoke,  his  voice  and  accent  fell  upon  the  air  of 
this  wilderness  as  a  rarely  pleasant  thing  to  hear.  Saul 
hastily  dressed  his  whiskers  with  his  horny  left  hand 
before  he  answered,  but  even  then,  he  omitted  to  return 
the  greeting. 

"  I  want  to  know,"  he  said,  sidling  up,  "  how  much  it 
would  cost  to  -send  that  by  the  cars  to  St.  Hennon's."  He 
nudged  his  elbow  towards  the  coffin  as  he  spoke. 

"  That  box  ?  "  asked  the  station-master.  "  How  much 
does  it  weigh  ?  " 

"  We  might  weigh  it  if  I'd  some  notion  first  about  how 
much  I'd  need  to  pay." 

"  What's  in  it  ?  " 

Saul  smoothed  his  whiskers  again.  "  Well,"  he  said — 
then,  after  a  slight  pause — "  it's  a  dead  man." 

"  Oh ! "  said  Trenholme.  Some  habit  of  politeness, 
unnecessary  here,  kept  his  exclamation  from  expressing 
the  interest  he  instantly  felt.  In  a  country  where  there 
are  few  men  to  die,  even  death  assumes  the  form  of  an 
almost  agreeable  chanf;'  as  a  matter  of  lively  concern. 
Then,  after  a  pause  which  both  men  felt  to  be  suitable,  "  I 
suppose  there  is  a  special  rate  for — that  sort  of  thing,  you 
know.  I  really  haven't  been  here  very  long.  I  will  look 
it  up.  I  suppose  you  have  a  certificate  of  death,  haven't 
you  ?  " 

Again  Saul  dressed  his  whiskers.  His  attention  to  them 
was  his  recognition  of  the  fact  that  Trenholme  impressed 
him  as  a  superior. 

"I  don't  know  about  a  certificate.  You've  heard  of  the 
Bates  and  Camei-on  clearin',  I  s'pose ;  it's  old  Cameron 
that's  dead" — again  he  nudged  his  elbow  coffinward — 
"and  Mr.  Bates  he  wrote  a  letter  to  the  minister  at  St. 
Hennon's." 


CHAP-  VIIl] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


6S 


liere 
an 
I'll. 
"I 


the 
n'on 
I'd— 

St. 


He  took  the  letter  from  his  pocket  as  he  spoke,  and 
Trenholme  perceived  that  it  was  addressed  in  a  legible 
hand  and  sealed. 

"  I  fancy  it's  all  right,"  said  he  doubtfully.  He  really 
had  not  any  idea  wluit  the  railway  might  require  before  he 
took  the  thing  in  charge. 

Saul  did  not  make  answer.  He  was  not  quite  sure  it 
was  all  right,  but  tlie  sort  of  wrongness  he  feared  was  not 
to  be  confided  to  the  man  into  whose  care  he  desired  to 
shove  the  objectionable  burden. 

"  What  did  he  die  of  ?  "  asked  the  young  man. 

"  He  fell  down,  and  he  seemed  for  some  days  as  if  he'd 
get  over  it ;  then  he  was  took  sudden.  We  put  his  feet 
into  a  hot  pot  of  water  and  made  him  drink  lye." 

"  Lye  ?  " 

"  Ash  water — but  we  gave  it  him  weak." 

"  Oh." 

"  But— he  died." 

"Well,  that  was  sad.  Does  he  leave  a  wife  and 
family  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Saul  briefly.  "  But  how  much  must  I  pay  to 
have  the  cars  take  it  the  rest  of  the  way  ?  " 

Trenholme  stepped  into  his  room  and  lit  his  lamp  that 
he  might  better  examine  his  list  of  rates.  Saul  came  inside 
to  warm  himself  at  the  stove.  The  lamp  in  that  little  room 
was  the  one  spot  of  yellow  light  in  the  whole  world  that 
lay  in  sight,  yet  outside  it  was  not  yet  dark,  only  dull  and 
bitterly  cold. 

Trenholme  stood  near  the  lamp,  reading  fine  print  upon  a 
large  card.  The  railway  was  only  just  opened  and  its  tariff 
incomplete  as  yet.  He  found  no  particular  provision  made 
for  the  carriage  of  coffins.  It  took  him  some  minutes  to 
consider  under  what  class  of  freight  to  reckon  this,  but  he 
decided  not  to  weigh  it.  Saul  looked  at  the  room,  the  ham 
and  tea,  and  at  Trenholme,  with  quiet  curiosity  in  his 
beady  eyes.  Outside,  the  oxen  hung  their  heads  and  dozed 
again. 


:     i 


■ 


66 


WHAT  ATECESS/TV  KNOWS 


[hook  I 


•  I 


iii 


i  ! 


!  J 


"  You  see,"  said  Saul,  "  I'll  get  there  myself  with  the 
potash  to-morrow  night ;  then  I  can  arrange  with  the 
minister." 

He  had  so  much  difficulty  in  producing  the  requisite 
number  of  coins  for  the  carriage  that  it  was  evident  the 
potash  could  not  be  sent  by  train  too ;  but  Trenholme  was 
familiar  now  with  the  mode  of  life  that  could  give  time  of 
man  and  beast  so  easily,  and  find  such  difficulty  in  produc- 
ing a  little  money  of  far  less  value.  He  did  remark  that, 
as  the  cart  was  to  complete  the  journey,  the  coffin  might 
as  well  travel  the  second  day  as  it  had  done  the  first ;  but 
Saul  showed  reluctance  to  hear  this  expostulation,  and 
certainly  it  was  not  the  station-master's  business  to  insist. 
The  whole  discussion  did  not  take  long.  Saul  was  evidently 
in  a  haste  not  usual  to  such  as  he,  and  Trenholme  felt  a 
natural  desire  to  sit  down  to  his  tea,  the  cooking  of  which 
filled  the  place  with  grateful  perfume.  Saul's  haste  showed 
itself  more  in  nervous  demeanour  than  in  capacity  to  get 
through  the  interview  quickly.  Even  when  the  money 
was  paid,  he  loitered  awkwardly.  Trenholme  went  into  his 
store-room,  and  threw  open  its  double  doors  to  the  outside 
air. 

"  Help  me  in  with  it,  will  you  ?  " 

It  was  the  pleasant  authority  of  his  tone  that  roused  the 
other  to  alacrity.  They  shouldered  the  coffin  between  them. 
The  store-room  was  fairly  large  and  contained  little.  Tren- 
holme placed  the  coffin  reverently  by  itself  in  an  empty 
corner.  He  brought  a  pot  of  black  paint  and  a  brush,  and 
printed  on  it  the  necessary  address.  Then  he  thought  a 
moment,  and  added  in  another  place  the  inscription — 
"  Box  containing  coffin — to  be  handled  with  care." 

It  is  to  be  remarked  how  dependent  we  are  for  the 
simplest  actions  on  the  teaching  we  have  had.  Never 
having  received  the  smallest  instruction  as  to  how  to  deal 
with  such  a  charge,  it  cost  him  effort  of  thought  and  some 
courage  to  put  on  this  inscription.  Saul  watched,  divide  u. 
between  curious  interest  and  his  desire  to  be  away. 


CHAP.  VIIl] 


PV//A T  NECESSITY  KNO \VS 


67 


land 
it  a 
111 — 

ithe 
iver 
leal 
)me 


"  You've  got  another  coffin  inside  this  case,  of  course  ?  " 
said  the  station-master,  struck  ■■vith  a  sudden  doubt. 

To  him,  polished  wood  and  silver  plating  seemed  such  a 
natural  accessory  of  death  that  he  had,  without  thought, 
always  associated  the  one  idea  with  the  other. 

"  No,  that's  all  there  is.  We  made  it  too  large  by  mis- 
take, but  we  put  a  bed  quilt  in  for  stuffing." 

"But,  my  man,  it  isn't  very  well  put  together;  the  lid 
isn't  tight." 

"No — neither  it  is."  Saul  had  already  sidled  to  the 
door. 

Trenholme  felt  it  with  his  thumb  and  fingers. 

"It's  perfectly  loose,"  he  cried.  "It's  only  got  a  few 
nails  in  the  lid.  You  ought  to  have  put  in  screws,  you 
know." 

"Yes,  but  we  hadn't  got  any;  we  had  used  the  last 
screws  we  had  for  the  hinge  of  a  door.  I'm  going  to  buy 
some  to  put  in  at  St.  Heiinon's.     Good-day." 

As  they  spoke,  Saul  had  been  going  to  his  cart,  and 
Trenholme  following,  with  authoritative  displeasure  in  his 
mien. 

"  It's  exceedingly  careless — upon  my  word.  Come  back 
and  nail  it  up  firmer,"  cried  he. 

But  Saul  drove  off. 

The  young  station-master  went  back  to  the  store-room. 
He  looked  at  the  box  for  a  moment,  with  annoyance  still  in 
his  mind.  The  air  that  he  had  would  have  sat  well  upon 
a  man  with  servants  under  him,  but  was  somewhat  futile 
in  the  keeper  of  a  desolate  railway-station.  He  had  not 
been  able  to  command  the  man,  and  he  certainly  could  not 
command  the  coffin  to  nail  itself  more  firmly  together. 
Vfter  all,  his  tea  waited.  Somewhat  sullenly  he  barred 
the  double  door  on  the  inside,  and  went  back  to  his  own 
room  and  his  evening  meal. 

The  room  was  filled  '  '^  the  steam  of  the  boiling  tea  as 
he  poured  it  out,  and  th  .oke  of  the  ham  gravy.  With 
the  strength  of  youth  and  health  he  thrust  aside  the  annoy- 


68  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  I 

anoe  of  his  official  position  from  his  present  mind,  and  set 
himself  to  his  supper  with  considerable  satisfaction. 

He  had  not,  however,  eaten  a  single  morsel  before  he 
heard  a  sound  in  the  next  room  which  caused  him  to  sit 
erect  and  almost  rigid,  forgetting  his  food.  He  had  been 
so  pre-occupied  a  minute  before  with  the  carelessness  of 
those  who  constructed  the  coffin  that  he  had  left  the  inner 
door  between  the  two  rooms  ajar.  It  was  through  this 
that  the  sound  came,  and  it  seemed  to  his  quickened  sense 
to  proceed  from  the  corner  in  which  the  pinewood  box  re- 
posed, but  he  hastily  went  over  all  the  contents  of  the  room 
to  think  if  any  of  them  could  be  falling  or  shifting  among 
themselves.  The  sound  still  continued;  it  seemed  as  if 
something  was  being  gently  worked  to  and  fro,  as  in  a  soft 
socket.  His  imagination  was  not  very  quick  to  represent 
impossible  dangers,  nor  had  he  in  him  more  cowardice 
than  dwells  in  most  brave  men.  He  did  not  allow  himself 
to  conclude  that  he  heard  the  coffin-lid  being  opened  from 
the  inside.  He  took  his  lamp  and  went  to  see  what  was 
wrong. 

The  sound  ceased  as  he  moved.     When  the  light  of  the 

i  lamp  was  in  the  next  room  all  was  perfectly  silent.     For 

almost  half  a  minute  he  stood  still,  shading  his  eyes  from 

the  lamp,  while,  with  every  disagreeable  sensation  crowd- 

I'!  ing  upon  him,  he  observed  distinctly  that,  although   the 

ij:  nails  were  still  holding  it  loosely  in  place,  the  lid  of  the 

1 1  coffin  was  raised  half  an  inch,  more  than  that  indeed,  at 

m  the  top. 

VS  "Now,  look  here,  you  know — this  won't  do,"  said  Tren- 

i'l  holme,  in  loud  authoritative  tones;  so  transported  was  he 

|i|  by  the   disagreeableness   of    his   situation   that,    for    the 

i'^  moment,  he  supposed  himself  speaking  to  the  man  with 

whom  he  had  just  spoken.     Then,  realising  that  that  man, 

although  gone,  was  yet  probably  within  call,  he  set  down 

the  lamp  hastily  and  ran  out. 

. ,  It  seemed  to  him  remarkable  that  Saul  and  the  oxen  could 

I  have  gone  so  far  along  the  road,  although  of  course  they 


CHAP,  viii]  tVHAT  NECESSITY  KJVOU'S 


69 


m- 
Ihe 
he 
Ith 
In, 
ivn 

Id 


were  still  plainly  in  sight.  He  shouted,  but  received  no 
answer.  He  raised  his  voiee  and  shouted  again  and  again, 
with  force  and  authority.  He  ran,  as  lie  sliouted,  about 
twenty  paces.  In  return  he  only  heard  Saul's  own  com- 
mands to  his  oxen.  Wliether  the  man  was  making  so  much 
noise  himself  that  he  could  not  hear,  or  whether  he  lieard 
and  would  not  attend,  Trenholme  could  not  tell,  but  he  felt 
at  the  moment  too  angry  to  run  after  him  farther.  It  was 
not  his  place  to  wait  upon  this  carter  and  run  his  errands ! 
Upon  this  impulse  lie  turned  again. 

However,  as  he  walked  back,  the  chill  frost  striking  his 
bare  head,  he  felt  more  diffidence  and  perplexity  about  his 
next  action  than  was  at  all  usual  to  him.  He  knew  that  he 
had  no  inclination  to  investigate  the  contents  of  the  box. 
All  the  curiosity  stirred  within  him  still  failed  to  create 
the  least  desire  to  pry  further;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  he 
could  not  think  it  right  to  leave  the  matter  as  it  was.  A 
strong  feeling  of  duty  commanding  him  to  open  the  coffin 
and  see  that  all  was  right,  and  a  stout  aversion  to  perform- 
ing this  duty,  were  the  main  elements  of  his  consciousness 
during  the  minutes  in  which  he  retraced  his  steps  to  the 
house. 

He  had  set  down  the  lamp  on  a  package  just  within  the 
baggage-room  door,  so  that  his  own  room,  by  which  he 
entered,  was  pretty  dark,  save  for  the  fire  showing  through 
the  damper  of  the  stove.  Trenholme  stopped  in  it  just  one 
moment  to  listen;  then,  unwilling  to  encourage  hesitation 
in  himself,  went  through  the  next  door.  His  hand  was  out- 
stretched to  take  the  lamp,  his  purpose  was  clearly  defined 
— to  go  to  the  far  corner  and  examine  the  coffin-lid.  Hand 
and  thouglit  arrested,  he  stopped  on  the  threshold,  for  the 
lid  was  thrown  off  the  coffin,  and  beside  it  stood  a  figure. 

The  lamp,  which  did  not  throw  very  much  light  across 
the  comparatively  large  empty  room,  was  so  placed  that 
what  light  there  was  came  directly  in  Trenholme's  eyes. 
Afterwards  he  remembered  this,  and  wondered  whether  all 
that  he  thought  he  saw  had,  in  fact,  been  clearly  seen;  but 


!    :  i 


'i 


70  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [hook  I 

at  tlie  inoineut  lio  thought  nothing  of  tho  inadequacy  of 
light  or  of  the  ghire  in  liis  eyes ;  lie  only  knew  that  there, 
in  the  far  eorner  beside  the  empty  eolKn,  stood  a  white 
figure — very  tall  to  his  vision,  very  lank,  with  wliite  drapery 
that  clothed  it  round  the  head  like  a  cowl  and  spread  upon 
the  floor  around  its  feet.  But  all  that  was  not  what 
arrested  his  attention  and  chilled  his  strong  courage,  it 
was  the  eyes  of  the  figure,  which  were  clearly  to  be  seen — 
large,  frightened,  fierce  eyes,  that  met  his  own  with  a 
courage  and  terror  in  them  which  seemed  to  quell  his  own 
courage  and  impart  terror  to  him.  Above  them  he  saw  the 
form  of  a  pallid  brow  clearly  moulded.  He  did  not  remem- 
ber the  rest  of  the  face — perhaps  the  white  clothes  wrapped 
it  around.  While  the  eyes  struck  him  with  awe,  he  had  a 
curious  idea  that  the  thing  had  been  interrupted  in  arrang- 
ing its  own  winding  sheet,  and  was  waiting  until  he  retired 
again  to  finish  its  toilet.  This  was  merely  a  grotesque 
side-current  of  thought.  He  was  held  and  awed  by  the 
surprise  of  the  face,  for  those  eyes  seemed  to  him  to  belong 
to  no  earthly  part  of  the  old  man  who,  he  had  been  told, 
lay  there  dead.  Drawn  by  death  or  exhaustion  as  the  face 
around  them  looked,  the  eyes  themselves  appeared  un- 
earthly in  their  large  brightness. 

He  never  knew  whether  his  next  action  was  urged  more 
by  fear,  or  by  the  strong  sense  of  justice  that  had  first 
prompted  him  to  call  back  the  carter  as  the  proper  person 
to  deal  with  the  contents  of  the  coffin.  Whatever  the 
motive,  it  acted  quickly.  He  drew  back;  closed  the  doorj 
locked  it  on  the  side  of  his  own  room;  and  set  out  again  to 
bring  back  the  man.  This  time  he  should  hear  and  should 
return.  Trenholme  did  not  spare  his  voice,  and  the  wide 
lonely  land  resounded  to  his  shout.  And  this  time  he  was 
not  too  proud  to  run,  but  went  at  full  speed  and  shouted 
too. 

Saul  undoubtedly  saw  and  heard  him,  for  he  faced  about 
and  looked.  Perhaps  something  in  the  very  way  in  which 
Trenholme  ran  suggested  why  he  ran.     Instead  of  respond- 


CHAP,  viii]  irifAT  mXKSSlTY  KNOWS 


7^ 


ing  to  the  oomiiiaiul  to  ri'turn,  lie  liiniself  began  to  run 
away  and  madly  to  goad  his  oxen.  There  are  those  who 
suppose  oxt  n  yoked  to  a  cart  cannot  run,  but  on  occasion 
they  can  plunge  hito  a  Avild  heavy  gallop  that  man  is  pow- 
erless to  curb.  The  great  strength  latent  in  these  animals 
was  apparent  now,  for,  after  their  long  day's  draught,  they 
seemed  to  become  imbued  with  their  driver's  panic,  and 
changed  from  walking  to  dashing  madly  down  the  road. 
It  was  a  long  straight  incline  of  three  miles  from  the  sta- 
tion to  the  settlement  called  Turrifs.  Saul,  unable  to  keej) 
lip  with  the  cattle,  flung  himself  upon  the  cart,  and,  with 
great  rattling,  was  borne  swiftly  aAvay  from  his  pursuer. 
Young  Trenholme  stopped  when  he  had  run  a  mile.  So 
far  he  had  gone,  determined  that,  if  the  man  would  not 
stop  for  his  commands,  he  should  be  collared  and  dragged 
back  by  main  force  to  face  the  thing  whicdi  he  had  brought, 
but  by  degrees  even  the  angry  young  man  perceived  the 
futility  of  chasing  mad  cattle.  He  drew  up  panting,  and, 
turning,  walked  back  once  more.  He  did  not  walk  slowly; 
he  was  in  no  frame  to  loiter  and  his  run  had  brought  such 
a  flush  of  heat  upon  him  that  it  would  have  been  madness 
to  linger  in  the  bitter  cold.  At  the  same  time,  while  his 
legs  moved  rapidly,  his  mind  certainly  hesitated — in  fact, 
it  almost  halted,  unable  to  foresee  in  the  least  what  its 
next  opinion  or  decision  would  be.  He  was  not  a  man  to 
pause  in  order  to  make  up  his  mind.  He  had  a  strong 
feeling  of  responsibility  towards  his  little  station  and  its 
inexplicable  tenant,  therefore  he  hurried  back  against  his 
will.  His  only  consolation  in  this  backward  walk  was  the 
key  of  the  door  he  had  locked,  which  in  haste  he  had 
taken  out  and  still  held  in  his  hand.  Without  attempting 
to  decide  whether  the  thing  he  had  seen  was  of  common 
clay  or  of  some  lighter  substance,  he  still  did  not  lend 
his  mind  with  sufficient  readiness  to  ghostly  theory  to 
imagine  that  his  unwelcome  guest  could  pass  through 
locked  doors. 

Nor  did  the  ghost,   if  ghost  it  was,  pags  through  iin- 


I 

I 

i 

I  i 


f2  IVHAT  N/'ICESS/TV  K!^OVVS  [hook  \ 

opened  doors.     Tlu;  Huw  in  Trenliolnie's  comfortable  theory 
\  was  that  he  had  forgotten  that  the  hirge  double  door,  whicih 

opened  from  the  baggage  room  to  the  railway  track,  was 
barred  on  the  inside.     When  he  got  back  to  liis  place  he 
i  found  this  door  ajar,  and  neither  in  his  own  room,  nor  in 

'  the  baggage  room,  nor   in   the   cofiin,  was   there   sign   of 

I  luiman  presence,  living  or  dead. 

•'  All  the  world  about  lay  in  the  clear  white  twilight.     The 

■'  blueberry  flats,  the  bramble-holts,  were  red.     The  clouded 

I  sky  was  white,  except  for  that  metallic  blue  tinge  in  the 

I  west,  through  which,  in  some  thin  places,  a  pale  glow  of 

I  yellower  light  was  now  visible,  the  last  rays  of  the  day 

that  had  set.  It  was  this  world  on  which  the  young  Eng- 
lishman looked  as,  amazed  and  somewhat  affrighted,  he 
walked  rouiul  the  building,  searching  on  all  sides  for  the 
creature  that  could  hardly  yet,  had  it  run  away  in  such  a 
level  land,  be  wholly  out  of  sight. 

He  went  indoors  again  to  make  sure  that  nothing  was 
there,  and  this  time  he  made  a  discovery — his  tea  was  gone 
from  his  cup.  He  gave  a  shudder  of  disgust,  and,  leaving 
his  food  untouched,  put  on  coat  and  cap,  and  went  out 
shutting  his  door  behind  him.  His  spirits  sank.  It 
seemed  to  him  that,  had  it  been  midnight  instead  of  this 
blank,  even  daylight,  had  his  unearthly-looking  visitant 
acted  in  more  unearthly  fashion,  the  circumstances  would 
have  had  less  weird  force  to  impress  his  mind. 

We  can,  after  all,  only  form  conjectures  regarding  inex- 
plicable incidents  from  the  successive  impressions  that 
have  been  made  upon  us.  This  man  was  not  at  all  given 
to  love  of  romance  or  superstition,  yet  the  easy  explanation 
that  some  man,  for  purpose  of  trick  or  crime,  had  hidden 
in  the  box,  did  not  seem  to  him  to  fit  the  circumstances. 
He  could  not  make  himself  believe  that  the  eyes  he  had 
seen  belonged  to  a  living  man;  on  the  other  hand,  he  found 
it  impossible  to  conceive  of  a  tea-drinking  ghost. 
'  About  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away  there  was  a  long  grove 

of  birch  trees,  the  projecting  spur  of  a  second  growth  of 


•ii 


CHAP.  IX] 


IVIfAT  I^ECESS/TV  kWOWS 


73 


forest  tliat  covercul  tlio  distant  risins,'  f^'round.  Towards 
this  Tronliolme  strode,  for  it  was  the  only  eovert  near  in 
whieli  a  liunian  being  couhl  travel  unseen.  It  was  more 
by  the  impulse  of  eni-rgy,  however,  than  by  reasonable 
hope  that  he  eanie  there,  for  by  the  time  he  had  reaehed 
the  edge  of  the  trees,  it  was  beginning  to  grow  dark,  even 
in  the  open  jdain. 

No  one  who  has  not  seen  birch  trees  in  their  undisturbed 
native  haunts  can  know  how  purely  whit(>,  unmarred  by 
stiiin  or  tear,  their  trunks  can  be.  Trenholme  looked  in 
among  them.  They  grew  thickly.  White — white — it 
seemed  in  the  gathering  gloom  that  each  was  whiter  than 
the  other;  and  Trenholme,  remembering  that  his  only 
knowledge  of  the  figure  he  sought  was  that  it  was  wrapped 
in  white,  recognised  the  uselessness,  the  absurdity  even, 
of  hoi)ing  to  find  it  here,  of  all  places. 

Then  he  went  back  to  the  road  and  started  for  Turrifs 
Settlement. 


! 


CHAPTER    IX. 

The  settlement  called  "  Turrifs "  was  not  a  village ;  it 
was  only  a  locality,  in  which  there  were  a  good  many 
houses  within  the  radius  of  a  few  square  miles. 

When  Alec  Trenholme  started  off  the  third  time  to  re- 
proach the  recreant  driver  of  the  ox-cart,  he  had  no  inten- 
tion of  again  dealing  with  him  directly.  He  bent  his  steps 
to  the  largest  house  in  the  neighbourhood,  the  house  of  the 
family  called  Turrifs;  whose  present  head,  being  the 
second  of  his  generation  on  the  same  farm,  held  a  posi- 
tion of  loosely  acknowledged  pre-eminence.  Turrif  was  a 
Frenchman,  who  had  had  one  Scotch  forefather  through 
whom  his  name  had  come.  This,  indeed,  was  the  case 
with  many  of  his  neighbours. 

Trenholme  had  had  various  negotiations  with  this  Turrif 
and   his   neighbours,  but   he   had   only  once  been  to  the 


74  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  i 

house  lie  was  now  seeking;  and  in  tlie  darkness,  •..'iiich 
had  fallen  eompletely  during  his  three-mile  walk,  he  was 
a  little  puzzled  to  find  it  quickly.  Its  wooden  and  weather- 
greyed  walls  glimmered  but  faintly  in  the  night;  it  was 
only  by  following  the  line  of  log  fences  through  the  flat 
treeless  fields  that  he  found  himself  at  last  full  in  the 
feeble  rays  of  the  candle-light  that  peeped  from  its  largest 
window.     Trenholme  knocked. 

Turrif  hi'nself  opened  the  door.  He  was  a  man  of 
middle  age,  thick-set  but  thin,  with  that  curious  grey  shade 
on  a  healthy  skin  that  so  often  pertains  to  Frenchmen. 
For  a  moment  his  shrewd  but  mild  countenance  peered  into 
the  darkness;  then,  holding  Avide  the  door  and  making 
welcome  motion  with  his  hand,  he  bade  Trenholme  enter. 

Trenholme  could  not  speak  French,  but  he  knew  that 
Turrif  could  understand  enough  English  to  comprehend 
his  errand  if  he  told  it  slowly  and  distinctly.  Slowly 
and  distinctly,  therefore,  he  recounted  all  that  ''ad  befallen 
him  since  Saul  arrived  at  the  station;  but  such  telling  of 
such  a  story  could  not  be  without  some  embarrassment, 
caused  by  the  growing  perception,  on  the  part  of  both  men, 
of  its  extraordinary  nature. 

"  Eh — h !  "  said  the  Frenchman  during  the  telling.     It 
was  a  prolonged  syllable,   denoting   meditative   astonish- 
ment, a.      it  brought  another  listener,  for  the  wife  came 
I  ;  and  stood  by  her  husband,  who  interpreted  the  story  to  her, 

I      '  and  shortly  a  girl  of  thirteen  also  drew  near  and  stood 

I  listening  to  her  father's  interpretation.     Trenholme  began 

\  ■;  to  wonder  v/hetlier  the  elder  listeners  were  placing  any 

I  ]  confidence  in  his  word;  but  the  doubt  was  probably  in  his 

I  •  m'^id  only,  for  an  honest  man  does  not  estimate  the  subtile 

;;  force  of  his  own  honesty. 

Turrif  and  his  wife  listened  to  all  that  was  said,  and 

looked  at  each  other,  and  looked  at  him,  and  asked  him  a 

[  »  \  good  many  questions.     They  were  neither  of  them  hasty, 

I  I  '  but,  as  the  woman's  manner  was  the  more  vivacious,  so  her 

f   ■  «  questions,   when   translated,   showed  a  somewhat   quicker 


i   I 


CHAP.  IX j 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOIVS 


75 


wit.  AVlien  all  was  said,  like  wise  people,  they  pro- 
nounced no  sentence,  either  upon  Trenholrie's  actions  or 
upon  those  of  the  creature  that  luid  inhabited  the  coffin; 
but  they  remarked  that  if  the  carter  had  committed  no  evil 
he  would  not  have  run  away.  They  said  that  they  had 
some  knowledge  of  ^his  man,  whom  they  called  "Monsieur 
Saul,"  and  that  he  was  a  fellow  of  little  worth.  They 
agreed  that  Turrif  should  go  with  Trenholme,  as  requested, 
to  bring  the  man  to  book. 

On  crossing  the  threshold  of  the  house  Trenholme  had 
come  at  once  into  a  large,  long  room,  which  composed  the 
whole  lower  flat  of  the  dwelling,  as  appeared  from  the 
windows  on  both  sides  and  from  the  fact  that  the  staircase 
went  up  from  one  end  of  it.  It  was  a  comfortable,  well- 
warmed  room,  containing  evidences  of  all  the  various 
industries  of  the  family,  from  the  harness  that  hung  on 
the  wall  and  the  basket  of  carded  wool  by  the  spining- 
wheel,  to  the  bucket  of  cow's  mash  that  stood  warming  by 
the  stove  at  the  foot  of  the  baby's  cradle.  At  the  far  end 
a  large  table,  that  held  the  candle,  had  a  meal  spread  upon 
it,  and  also  some  open  dog's-eared  x^rimers,  at  which  small 
children  were  spelling  audibly. 

When  the  conference,  which  had  taken  place  near  the 
door,  was  over,  the  wife  went  back  to  her  children  and  her 
lighted  table,  and  Trenholme  made  as  if  to  open  the  door, 
supposing  that  Turrif  would  walk  away  with  him. 

"Eh — ?io?i,"  said  the  older  man,  with  a  kindly  smile. 
^^  Pas  encore,"  and  taking  Trenholme  by  the  arm,  he  pushed 
him  gently  towards  the  table.  "I  weel  get  out  my  'orse," 
said  he,  in  slow,  broken  Englisli.  "  You  have  had  enough 
walking  to-day,  and  I  have  had  enough  work.  A  present" 
— with  a  gesture  toward  the  table. 

He  made  Trenholme  sit  dcwr  at  the  table.  There  was 
a  very  large  pan  of  tl.ick  sour  milk  on  it,  and  a  loaf  of 
grey  bread.  Bits  of  this  bread  were  set  round  the  edge  of 
the  table,  near  the  children,  who  munched  at  them. 

Turrif  gave  TrenliolLie  a  bit  of  bread,  cutting  into  ^\g 


ii    <4 


76  ti^Z/AT  IStECESSITV  KNOWS  [boot:  I 

loaf  as  men  only  do  in  whose  lives  bread  is  not  scarce. 
With  a  large  si)Oon  he  took  a  quantity  of  the  thick  rich 
cream  from  the  top  of  the  milk  and  put  a  saucer  of  it  before 
the  visitor.  Trenholme  a+e  it  with  his  bread,  and  found  it 
not  as  sour  as  he  expected,  and  on  the  whole  very  good. 
Turrif,  eating  bread  as  he  went,  carried  the  harness  out  of 
the  house. 

As  there  was  no  one  left  for  him  to  talk  to,  Trenholme 
grew  more  observant.  He  remarked  the  sweetness  and 
sense  in  the  face  of  the  house -mother  as  she  bestowed  their 
suppers  upon  the  children.  She  was  still  comparatively 
young,  but  there  was  no  beauty  of  youth  about  her,  only 
the  appearance  of  strength  that  is  produced  by  toil  and 
endurance  before  these  two  have  worn  the  strength  away. 
But,  in  spite  of  this  look  of  strength,  the  face  was  not  hard — 
no,  nor  sad;  and  there  was  a  certain  latent  poetry,  too, 
about  the  gesture  and  look  with  which  she  gave  food  to  the 
little  or-^s,  as  if  the  giving  and  receiving  were  a  free  thing, 
and  not  the  mere  necessity  of  life.  Her  manner  of  giving 
them  supper  was  to  push  the  large  pan  of  curded  milk  close 
to  the  edge  of  the  table,  where  the  little  ones  were  clus- 
tered, and  let  them,  four  of  them  at  once,  lap  out  of  the 
side  of  it  with  their  little  spoons.  At  the  same  time  she 
pushed  the  creasy  yellow  cover  of  cream  to  the  farther 
side,  with  a  watchful  glance  at  Trenholme's  saucer,  evi- 
dently meaning  that  it  was  kept  for  him.  She  and  the 
elder  boy  and  girl  waited  to  sup  till  the  little  ones  had 
finished. 

Trenholme  endeavoured  to  say  that  he  should  not  want 
any  more  crjam,  but  she  did  not  understand  his  words. 
He  would  have  felt  more  concerned  at  the  partiality  shown 
I  him  if  the  youngsters  had  looked  more  in  need  of  cream ; 

but  they  were,  in  truth,  so  round-faced  and  chubby,  and  so 
evidently  more  pleased  to  stare  at  him  with  their  big,  black 
eyes  than  grieved  to  lose  the  richest  part  of  their  mUk, 
that  he  felt  distress  would  have  been  thrown  way.  All 
four  little  ones  wore  round  knitted  caps,  and  their  little 


i 


CHAP.  IX] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


77 


heads,  at  uneven  heights,  their  serious  eyes  rolling  upon 
him,  and  their  greedy  little  mouths  supping  in  the  milk 
the  while,  formed  such  [in  odd  picture  round  the  white  disk 
of  the  milk-pan  that  Trenholme  could  not  help  laughing. 
The  greedy  little  feeders,  without  dropping  their  spoons, 
looked  to  their  mother  to  see  whether  they  ought  to  be 
frightened  or  not  at  such  conduct  on  the  stranger's  part, 
but  seeing  her  smile,  they  concluded  that  they  were  safe. 

Upon  Trenholme 's  making  further  overtures  of  friend- 
ship, one  or  two  of  them  began  to  smile:  the  smile  was 
infectious,  it  spread  to  all  four,  and  they  began  to  laugh, 
and  laughed  in  baby  fashion  quite  immoderately.  Their 
mother  considered  this  a  sign  that  they  had  had  enough, 
and  took  their  spoons  from  tliem.  As  they  scattered  from 
the  table  Trenholme  perceived  that,  though  their  heads 
were  covered,  their  feet  were  not.  Their  whole  costume 
consisted  of  a  short  blue  cotton  nightgown  and  the  little 
knitted  cap. 

When  Turrif  came  in  to  say  that  the  horse  was  ready, 
Trenholme  made  an  effort  to  present  his  thanks  in  saying 
good-bye  to  the  mistress  of  the  house,  but  she  did  not  seem 
to  expect  or  take  much  notice  of  these  manners.  As  he 
went  out  of  the  door  he  looked  back  to  see  her  bending  over 
the  baby  in  the  cradle,  and  he  noticed  for  the  first  time 
that  above  the  cradle  there  was  a  little  shrine  fastened  to 
the  wall.  It  was  decked  with  a  crucifix  and  paper  flow  ers ; 
above  was  a  coloured  picture  of  the  Virgin. 

Trenholme,  whose  nerves  were  perhaps  more  suscep- 
tible than  usual  by  reason  of  the  creature  set  at  large 
by  the  opening  of  the  coffin,  wondered  that  Turrif  should 
leave  his  wife  and  children  alone  so  willingly,  without 
any  effort  to  bar  the  house  and  without  objection  on  their 
part.  He  knew  there  was  no  other  house  within  half  a 
mile,  and  the  darkness  that  lay  on  the  flat  land  appeared 
to  give  room  for  a  thousand  dangers. 

He  expressed  this  surprise  to  Turrif,  who  replied  placidly 
that  the  good  saints  took  care  of  women  and  childrcxi — a 


78  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  i 

reply  wliich  probably  did  not  go  to  prove  the  man's  piety 
so  much  as  the  habitual  peace  of  the  neighbourhood. 

The  vehicle  to  which  Turrit"  had  harnessed  his  pony  was 
a  small  hay  cart — that  is  to  say,  a  cart  consisting  of  a  plat- 
form on  two  wheels,  and  a  slight  paling  along  each  side 
intended  to  give  some  support  to  its  contents.  It  was 
muc""  more  lightly  made  than  Saul's  ox-cart.  The  wheels 
went  over  the  frozen  ruts  at  a  good  pace,  and  the  inmates 
were  badly  jolted.  Trenholme  would  rather  have  walked, 
but  he  had  already  observed  that  the  Canadian  rustic  never 
walked  if  he  could  possiljly  avoid  it,  and  he  suppposed 
there  must  be  some  reason  for  this  in  the  nature  of  the 
country.  The  jolting  made  talking  disagreeable;  indeed, 
when  he  attempted  conversation  he  found  his  words 
reminded  him  forcibly  of  times  when,  in  the  nursery  of 
his  childhood,  he  had  noticed  the  cries  of  baby  companions 
gradually  grow  less  by  reason  of  the  rapid  vibrations  of 
the  nurse's  knee.  He  kept  silence  therefore,  and  wondered 
whether  Turrif  or  the  pony  was  guiding,  so  carelessly  did 
they  go  forth  into  the  darkness,  turning  corners  and  avoid- 
ing ghostly  fences  with  slovenly  ease. 

It  soon  appeared  that  Turrif  knew  no  more  than  Tren- 
holme where  to  find  Saul;  his  only  method  of  seeking  was 
to  inquire  at  each  house.  It  was  not,  however,  necessary 
to  go  into  each  house;  the  cart  was  only  brought  suffi- 
ciently near  upon  the  road  for  a  lusty  shout  to  reach  the 
family  inside.  The  first  house  Trenholme  hardly  saw  in 
the  darkness;  at  one  or  two  others  he  had  a  good  view  of 
the  interior  through  an  open  door  or  window.  From  each 
door  men  and  boys,  sometimes  women  and  children,  sallied 
forth  eagerly  into  the  cold  night  to  see  what  was  wanted, 
and  to  each  inquiry  the  phlegmatic  Turrif  repeated  Tren- 
holme's  tale.  Trenholme  would  have  given  a  good  deal 
to  be  able  fully  to  understand  what  was  said.  There  Avas 
much  conversation.  From  each  house  one  or  two  men 
joined  them,  and  in  one  case,  from  a  squalid-looking  door- 
way, a  loud-speaking  and  wilful  girl  came  out  and  insisted 


CHAP.  IX] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


79 


on  getting  into  the  cart.  She  talked  to  the  men  and 
shrieked  loudly  when  any  object,  such  as  a  barn  or  a  tree, 
loomed  dimly  at  the  side  of  the  road.  Two  of  the  men 
brought  a  lantern  and  walked  behind.  When  they  came  to 
the  house  whose  roof  was  found  to  cover  Saul,  a  party  of 
eight  entered  to  hear  and  pronounce  upon  his  explanation. 
Certainly,  if  Trenholme  had  had  the  management  of  the 
business,  he  would  not  have  proceeded  in  this  fashion,  but 
he  had  no  choice. 

The  carter  had  been  drinking  whisky — not  much  as  yet, 
but  enough  to  give  him  a  greater  command  of  words  than 
he  ordinarily  possessed.  When  he  saw  Trenholme  among 
the  band  who  were  inquiring  for  him,  he  manifested  dis- 
tinct signs  of  terror,  but  not  at  his  visitors;  his  ghastly 
glances  were  at  door  and  window,  and  he  drew  nearer  to 
the  company  for  protection.  It  was  plainly  what  they  had 
to  tell,  not  what  they  had  to  demand,  that  excited  him  to 
trembling;  the  assembled  neighbourhood  seemed  to  strike 
him  in  the  light  of  a  safeguard.  When,  however,  he  found 
the  incomers  were  inclined  to  accuse  him  of  trick  or 
knavery,  he  spoke  out  bravely  enough. 

Old  Cameron  had  died — they  ki.cw  old  Cameron? 

Yes,  the  men  assented  to  this  knowledge. 

And  after  he  had  been  dead  two  days  and  one  night,  Mr. 
Bates — they  knew  Mr.  Bates? — 

Assent  again. 

— Had  put  him  in  the  coffin  with  his  own  hands  and 
nailed  down  the  lid.     He  was  quite  dead — perfectly  dead. 

On  hearing  this  thp  bold  girl  who  had  come  with  them 
shrieked   again,  and   two  of  the   younger   men  took   her 
aside,  and,  holding  her  head  over  a  bucket  in  the  corner 
poured  water  on  it,  a  process  which  silenced  her. 

"And,"  said  Turrif,  quietly  speaking  in  French,  "what 
then?  " 

"What  then?"  said  Saui;  "Then  to-day  I  brought  him 
in  the  cart." 

"  And  buried  him  on  the  road,  because  he  was  heavy  and 


8o 


WHAT  NEC  ESS /TV  KNOWS 


[book  I 


,t 


I 
j 


useless,  and  let  some  friend  of  yours  play  with  the  box?  " 
continued  Turrif,  with  an  insinuating  smile. 

Saul  swore  loudly  that  tliis  was  not  the  case,  at  which 
the  men  shrugged  their  shoulders  and  looked  at  Trenholme. 

To  him  the  scene  and  the  circumstances  were  very  curious. 
The  house  into  which  they  liad  come  was  much  smaller 
than  Turrif's.  The  room  was  a  dismal  one,  with  no  sign 
of  woman  or  child  about  it.  Its  atmosphere  was  thick 
with  the  smoke  of  tobacco  and  the  fumes  of  hot  whisky,  in 
wliich  Saul  and  his  host  had  been  indulging.  A  soft,  home- 
made candle,  guttering  on  the  table,  shed  a  yellow  smoky 
light  upon  the  faces  of  the  bearded  men  who  stood  around 
it.  Saul,  perhaps  from  an  awkward  feeling  of  trembling 
in  his  long  legs,  had  resumed  his  seat,  his  little  eyes  more 
beady,  his  little  round  cheeks  more  ruddy,  than  ever,  his 
whiskers  now  entirely  disregarded  in  the  importance  of 
his  self-vindication. 

Too  proud  for  asseveration,  Trenholme  had  not  much 
more  to  say.  He  stated  briefly  that  he  could  not  be  respon- 
sible for  the  contents  of  a  box  when  the  contents  had  run 
away,  nor  for  any  harm  that  the  runaway  might  do  to  the 
neighbourhood,  adding  that  the  man  who  had  consigned 
the  box  to  his  care  must  now  come  and  take  it  away. 

He  spoke  with  a  fine  edge  of  authority  in  his  voice,  as 
a  man  speaks  who  feels  himself  superior  to  his  circum- 
stances and  companions.  He  did  not  look  at  the  men  as  he 
spoke,  for  he  was  not  yet  sure  whether  they  gave  him  the 
credence  for  which  he  would  not  sue,  and  he  did  not  care  to 
see  if  they  derided  him. 

*'I  sink,"  said  Turriff,  speaking  slowly  in  English  now, 
— "  I  sink  we  cannot  make  that  mee-racle  be  done." 

"  What  miracle  ?  "  asked  Trenholme. 

Those  of  the  men  who  understood  any  English  laughed. 

"  Se  miracle  to  make  dis  genteelman,  M.  Saul,  fetch  se 
box." 

Trenholme  then  saw  that  Saul's  shudderings  had  com.Q 
upon  him  again  at  the  mere  suggestion. 


3 


CHAP.  IX] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


8i 


\ 


"  What  am  I  to  do,  then  ?  "  he  asked. 

At  this  the  men  had  a  good  deal  of  talk,  and  Turrif 
interpreted  tlie  decision. 

"AVe  sink  it  is  for  M.  Bates  to  say  wliat  shall  be  done 
wit  se  box.  We  sink  we  take  so  liberte  to  say  to  sis 
man — '  Stay  here  till  some  one  go  to-morrow  and  fetch  M. 
Bates.'" 

This  strnck  Trenholme  as  just,  and  any  objection  he 
felt  to  spending  the  night  under  the  same  roof  with  the 
mysterious  coffin  did  not  seem  worth  remark. 

As  for  Saul,  he  professed  himself  satisfied  with  the 
arrangement.  He  was  only  too  glad  to  have  some  one 
brought  who  would  share  his  responsibility  and  attest,  in 
part  at  least,  his  tale. 

"  Well,"  said  Trenholme,  "  I'll  go  then." 

He  felt  for  the  key  of  the  station  in  his  pocket,  and 
would  have  thanked  the  men  and  bid  them  "good  even- 
ing," had  they  not,  rather  clamorously,  deprecated  his  inten- 
tion. Living,  as  they  did,  far  from  all  organised  justice, 
there  was  in  them  a  rough  sense  of  responsibility  for  each 
other  which  is  not  found  in  townsmen. 

Trenholme  shortly  made  out  that  they  had  decided  that 
two  of  them  should  help  him  to  guard  the  station  that 
night,  and  were  only  disputing  as  to  who  should  be  allotted 
for  the  purpose. 

"  It  isn't  at  all  necessary,"  said  Trenholme. 

"We  sink,"  said  Turrif,  with  his  deliberate  smile,  "it 
will  be  best ;  for  if  you  have  not  been  wandering  in  your 
mind,  some  one  else's  body  has  been  wandering." 

Trenholme  went  back  to  his  station  in  the  not  unpleasant 
company  of  two  sturdy  farmers,  one  young  and  vivacious, 
the  other  old  and  slow.  They  found  the  place  just  as  he 
had  left  it.  The  coffin  was  empty,  save  for  the  sweet- 
scented  curhion  of  rouglily  covered  pine  tassels  on  which 
the  body  of  the  gaunt  old  Cameron  had  been  laid  to  rest. 

The  three  men  sat  by  the  stove  in  the  other  room.  The 
smoke   from  their  pipes  dimmed    the   light   of  the  lamp. 


82 


WHAT  NEC  ESS /TV  KNOWS 


[book  I 


1  ;  ■ 


The  quiet  sounds  of  their  talk  and  movonionts  never 
entirely  took  from  them  the  consciousness  of  the  large 
dark  silence  that  Lay  without.  No  footfall  broke  it.  When 
they  heard  the  distant  rush  of  the  night  train,  they  all 
three  went  out  to  see  its  great  yellow  eye  come  nearer  and 
nearer. 

Trenholnu;  had  one  or  two  packages  to  put  in  the  van. 
He  and  his  companions  exchanged  greetings  with  the 
men  of  the  train. 

Just  as  he  was  handing  in  his  last  package,  a  gentle- 
manly voice  accosted  him. 

"Station-nuister!  "  said  a  grey-haired,  military-looking 
traveller,  "Station-nuister!  Is  there  any  way  of  getting 
milk  here?  " 

A  lady  stood  behind  the  gentleman.  Tlu-y  were  both  on 
the  platform  at  the  front  of  Ji  passenger  car. 

"It's  for  a  child,  you  know,"  explained  the  gentleman. 

Trenholme  remembered  his  untouched  tea,  and  confessed 
to  the  possession  of  a  little  milk. 

"  Oh,  hasten,  hasten!  "  cried  the  lady,  "  for  the  guard  says 
the  train  will  move  on  in  a  moment." 

As  Trenholme  knew  that  the  little  French  conductor  thus 
grandly  quoted  did  not  know  when  the  train  would  start, 
and  as  in  his  experience  the  train,  whatever  else  it  did, 
never  hastened,  he  did  not  move  with  the  sudden  agility 
that  was  desired.  Before  he  turned  he  heard  a  loud- 
whispered  aside  from  the  lady:  "Tell  him  we'll  pay  him 
double — treble,  for  it;  I  have  heard  they  are  avaricious." 

When  Trenholme  had  started  the  train  he  jumped  upon 
it  with  the  milk.  He  found  himself  in  a  long  car.  The 
double  seats  on  either  side  were  filled  with  sleepy  people. 
There  was  a  passage  down  the  middle,  and  the  lamps  above 
shone  dimly  through  dirty  glasses.  Trenholme  could  not 
immediately  see  any  one  like  the  man  who  had  spoken  to 
him  outside,  but  he  did  spy  out  a  baby,  and,  jug  in  hand, 
he  went  and  stood  a  moment  near  it. 

The  lady  who  held  the  baby  sat  upright,  with  her  head 


CHAI'.   IX] 


WHAT  NEC /CSS /TV  kWOll'S 


83 


leaning  against  the  side  of  tlie  car.  She  was  dozing,  and 
the  baby  was  also  asleep.  It  was  a  rosy,  healthy  cliild, 
about  a  year  old.  The  lady's  handsome  face  suggested 
she  was  about  seven-and-twenty.  Among  all  the  sluiwl- 
\vra[)ped  heaps  of  restless  humanity  around  them,  this  pair 
looked  very  lovely  together.  The  dusty  lampliglit  fell 
upon  them.  Tliey  seemed  to  Trenliolme  like  a  beautiful 
picture  of  mother  and  child,  such  as  one  sometimes  comes 
upon  among  the  evil  surroundings  of  old  frames  and  hide- 
ous prints. 

Said  Trenholme  aloud:  "1  don't  know  who  asked  me  for 
the  milk." 

The  lady  stirred  and  looked  at  him  indifferently.  She 
seemed  very  beautiful.  JNIen  see  with  different  eyes  in 
these  matters,  but  in  Trenholme's  eyes  this  lady  was  fault- 
less, and  her  face  and  air  touched  some  answering  mood  of 
reverence  in  his  heart.  It  rarely  liappens,  however,  that 
we  can  linger  gazing  at  the  faces  which  possess  for  ns  the 
most  beauty.  The  train  was  getting  up  speed,  and  Tren- 
holme, just  then  catching  sight  of  the  couple  who  had  asked 
for  the  milk,  had  no  choice  but  to  pass  down  the  car  and 
pour  it  into  the  jar  they  held. 

The  gentleman  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket.  "Oh  no," 
said  Trenholme,  and  went  out.  But  the  more  lively  Lady 
reopened  the  door  behind  him,  and  threw  a  coin  on  the 
ground  as  he  was  descending. 

By  the  sound  it  had  made  Trenholme  found  it,  and  saw 
by  the  light  of  the  passing  car  that  it  was  an  English  shil- 
ling. When  the  train  was  gone  he  stood  a  minute  where 
it  had  carried  him,  some  hundred  feet  from  the  station, 
and  watched  it  going  on  into  the  darkness. 

Afterwards,  when  his  companions  had  composed  them- 
selves tc  sleep,  and  he  lay  sleepless,  listening  to  all  that 
could  be  heard  in  the  silent  night,  curiously  enough  it  was 
not  upon  the  exciting  circumstances  of  the  early  evening 
that  he  mused  chiefly,  but  upon  the  people  he  had  seen  in 
the  night  train. 


84 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[hook  I 


A  seoiuiujj^ly  little,  tliinj^  luis  soinetiiiios  the  power  to 
change  those  (uirreiits  that  set  one  way  and  another  within 
a  man,  making  him  satislied  or  dissatisfied  with  this  or 
that.  By  chanee,  as  it  seems,  a  song  is  sung,  a  touch  is 
given,  a  sight  revealed,  and  man,  like  a  har[»  hung  to  the 
winds,  is  played  upon,  and  the  music  is  not  that  which  he 
devises.  So  it  was  that  Trenholme's  encounter  in  the  dusty 
ear  with  the  beautiful  woman  who  had  looked  upon  him  so 
indifferently  had  struck  a  chord  which  was  like  a  ])laintive 
sigh  for  some  better  purpose  in  life  than  he  was  beating 
out  of  this  rough  existence.  It  was  not  a  desire  for  greater 
pleasure  that  her  beauty  had  aroused  in  him,  but  a  desire 
for  nobler  action — such  was  the  power  of  her  face. 

The  night  passed  on;  no  footfall  broke  the  silence. 
The  passing  train  was  the  only  e])is()(h;  of  his  vigil. 

In  the  morning  when  Trenholmc  looked  out,  the  land 
was  covered  deep  in  snow. 


I 


I 


CHAPTER     X. 

WiiKN  the  night  train  left  Turrifs  Station  it  thundered 
on  into  the  darkness  slowly  enough,  but,  what  with  bump- 
ing over  its  rough  rails  Jind  rattling  its  big  cars,  it  seemed 
anxious  to  deceive  its  passengerL  into  the  idea  that  it  was 
going  at  great  speed.  A  good  number  of  its  cars  were  long 
vans  for  the  carriage  of  freight;  behind  these  came  two  for 
the  carriage  of  passengers.  These  were  both  labelled 
"First  Class."  One  was  devoted  to  a  few  men,  who  were 
smoking;  the  other  was  the  one  from  which  Trenholme 
had  descended.  Its  seats,  upholstered  in  red  velvet,  were 
dusty  from  the  smoke  and  dirt  of  the  way ;  its  atmosphere, 
heated  by  a  stove  at  one  end,  was  dry  and  oppressive.  It 
would  have  been  im])ossible,  looking  at  the  motley  company 
lounging  in  the  lamplight,  to  have  told  their  relations  one 
to  another;  but  it  was  evident  that  an  uncertain  number  of 


CHAP.  X] 


H'lIAT  Ni:ci:ss/Tv  Awoirs 


8s 


young  people,  ]»l;ie('(l  near  the  lady  who  held  the  baby,  were 
of  the  same  [)arty;  tliey  slept  in  twos  and  threes,  leaning 
on  one  another's  shouhhu's  and  covered  by  the  same  wraps. 
It  was  to  seats  left  vacant  nejir  this  groiq)  that  the  man 
and  his  wife  who  had  procured  tlie  milk  returned.  The 
man,  wlio  was  past  middh^  life,  betook  himsidf  to  his  seat 
wearily,  and  jnilled  his  cap  over  his  eyes  witliout  speaking. 
His  wife  deposited  the  mug  of  milk  in  a  basket,  speaking 
in  low  but  brisk  tones  to  the  lady  who  ludd  the  baby. 

"There,  So{)hia;  I've  had  to  pay  a  shilling  for  a  cupful, 
but  I've  got  some  milk." 

"  I  should  have  thought  you  would  have  been  surer  to  get 
good  milk  at  a  larger  station,  nuimma."  She  did  not  turn 
as  she  spoke,  perhaps  for  fear  of  waking  the  sleei)ing  baby. 

The  other,  who  was  the  infant's  mother,  was  rapidly 
tying  a  shawl  round  her  head  and  shoulders.  She  was  a 
little  stout  woman,  who  in  middle  age  had  retained  her 
brightness  of  eye  and  complexion.  Her  features  were 
regular,  and  her  little  nose  had  enough  suggestion  of  the 
eagle's  beak  in  its  form  to  preserve  her  countenance  from 
insignificance. 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  she  returned,  "as  to  the  milk — the 
young  man  looked  quite  clean,  I  assure  you;  and  then  such 
a  large  country  as  the  cows  have  to  roam  in !  " 

Having  delivered  herself  of  this  energetic  whisper,  she 
subsided  below  the  level  of  the  seat  back,  leaving  So})hia 
to  sit  and  wonder  in  a  drowsy  muse  whether  the  mother 
supposed  that  the  value  of  a  cow's  milk  would  be  increased 
if,  like  lo,  she  could  prance  across  a  continent. 

Sophia  liexford  sat  upright,  with  the  large  baby  in  her 
arms  and  a  bigger  child  leaning  on  her  shoulder.  Both 
children  were  more  or  less  restless;  but  their  sister  was 
not  restless,  she  sat  quite  still.  The  attitude  of  her  tall 
figure  had  the  composure  and  strength  in  it  which  do  not 
belong  to  lirst  youth.  Hers  Avas  a  line  face;  it  might  even 
be  called  beautiful;  but  no  one  now  would  call  it  pretty — 
the  skin  was  too  colourless,  the  expression  too  earnest. 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


^/ 


■  ^0 


z 


^p 


I/. 


1.0 


1.25 


■u  lU  B2.2 

:;  us  12.0 


I.I     fr  i 


III 


I 

i 


86  IV//AT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  i 

Her  eyes  took  on  the  look  that  tells  of  inward,  rather 
than  outward,  vision.  Her  thoughts  were  such  as  she 
would  not  have  told  to  any  one,  but  not  because  of  evil  in 
them. 

This  was  the  lady  to  whom  Robert  Trenholme,  the 
master  of  the  college  at  Chellaston,  had  written  his  letter; 
and  she  was  thinking  of  that  letter  now,  and  of  him,  pon- 
dering much  that,  by  some  phantasy  of  dreams,  she  should 
have  been  suddenly  reminded  of  him  by  the  voice  of  the 
man  who  had  passed  through  the  car  with  the  milk. 

Her  mind  flitted  lightly  to  the  past;  to  a  season  she  had 
once  spent  in  a  fashionable  part  of  London,  and  to  her 
acquaintance  with  the  young  curate,  who  was  receiving 
some  patronage  from  the  family  with  whom  she  was  visit- 
ing. She  had  been  a  beauty  then ;  every  one  danced  to  the 
tune  she  piped,  and  this  curate — a  mere  fledgeling — had 
danced  also.  That  was  nothing.  No,  it  was  nothing  that 
he  had,  for  a  time,  followed  lovesick  in  her  train — she 
never  doubted  that  he  had  had  that  sickness,  although  he 
Lad  not  spoken  of  it — all  that  had  been  notable  in  the 
acquaintance  was  that  she,  who  at  that  time  had  played 
with  the  higher  aims  and  impulses  of  life,  had  thought,  in 
her  youthful  arrogance,  that  she  discerned  in  this  man 
something  higher  and  finer  than  she  saw  in  other  men. 
She  had  been  pleased  to  make  something  of  a  friend  of 
him,  condescending  to  advise  and  encourage  him,  pro- 
nouncing upon  his  desire  to  seek  a  wider  field  in  a  new 
country,  and  calling  it  good.  Later,  when  he  was  gone, 
and  life  for  her  had  grown  more  quiet  for  lack  of  circum- 
stances to  feed  excitement,  she  had  wondered  sometimes  if 
this  man  had  recovered  as  perfectly  from  that  love-sickness 
as  others  had  done.  That  was  all — absolutely  all.  Her 
life  had  lately  come  again  into  indirect  relations  with  him 
through  circumstances  over  which  neither  he  nor  she  had 
had  any  control ;  and  now,  when  she  was  about  to  see  him, 
he  had  taken  upon  him  to  write  and  pick  up  the  thread  of 
personal  friendship  again  and  remind  her  of  the  past. 


CHAP.  X] 


WHAT  NEC  ESS /TV  KNOWS 


By 


In  what  mood  had  he  written  this  reminder?  Sophia 
Rexford  would  surely  not  have  been  a  woman  of  the  world 
if  she  had  not  asked  herself  this  question.  Did  he  think 
that  on  seeing  her  again  he  would  care  for  her  as  before? 
Did  he  imagine  that  intervening  years,  which  had  brought 
misfortune  to  her  family,  would  bring  her  more  within 
his  grasp?  Or  was  his  intention  in  writing  still  less  pleas- 
ing to  her  than  this?  Had  he  written,  speaking  so  guard- 
edly of  past  friendship,  with  the  desire  to  ward  off  any  hope 
she  might  cherish  that  he  had  remained  unmarried  for  her 
sake?  Sophia's  lips  did  not  curl  in  scorn  over  nis  last 
suggestion,  because  she  was  holding  her  little  court  of 
inquiry  in  a  mental  region  quite  apart  from  her  emotions. 

This  woman's  character  was,  how»^ver,  revealed  in  this, 
that  she  passed  easily  from  her  queries  as  to  what  the  man 
in  question  did,  or  would  be  likely  to,  think  of  her.  A 
matter  of  real,  possibly  of  paramount,  interest  to  her  was 
to  wonder  whether  his  life  had  really  expanded  into  the 
flower  of  which  she  had  thought  the  bud  gave  promise. 
She  tried  to  look  back  and  estimate  the  truth  of  her  youth- 
ful instinct,  which  had  told  her  he  was  a  man  above  other 
men.  And  if  that  had  been  so,  was  he  less  or  more  now 
than  he  had  been  then?  Had  he  been  a  benefit  to  the  new 
country  to  which  he  had  come?  Had  the  move  from  the 
Old  World  to  this — the  decision  in  which  she  had  rashly 
aided  with  youthful  advice — been  a  good  or  a  bad  thing  for 
him  and  for  the  people  to  whom  he  had  come? 

From  this  she  fell  a-thinking  upon  her  own  life  as,  in 
the  light  of  Trenholme's  letter,  the  contrast  of  her  present 
womanly  self  with  the  bright,  audacious  girl  of  that  past 
time  was  set  strongly  before  her.  It  is  probably  as  rare 
for  any  one  really  to  wish  to  be  the  self  of  any  former  time 
— to  wish  to  be  younger — as  it  is  really  to  wish  to  be  any 
one  else.  Sophia  certainly  did  not  dream  of  wishing  to  be 
younger.  We  are  seldom  just  to  ourselves — either  past  or 
present :  Sophia  had  a  tine  scorn  for  what  she  remembered 
herself  to  have  been  j  she  had  greater  respect  for  her  present 


88 


IVNAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  I 


self,  because  there  was  less  of  outward  show,  and  more  of 
reality. 

It  might  have  been  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  it  might  have 
been  more,  since  the  train  had  last  started,  but  now  it 
stopped  ratlier  suddenly.  Sophia's  father  murmured  sleep- 
ily against  the  proximity  of  the  stations.  He  was  reclin- 
ing in  the  seat  just  behind  lier. 

Sophia  looked  out  of  her  window.  She  saw  no  light. 
By-and-by  some  men  came  up  the  side  of  the  tra(!k  with 
lanterns.  She  saw  by  the  light  tliey  held  that  thoy  were 
officials  of  the  train,  and  tliat  the  bank  on  which  tliey 
walked  looked  perfectly  wild  and  untrodden.  She  turned 
her  head  toward  her  father. 

"  We  are  not  at  any  station, "  she  remarked. 

"  Ay !  "  He  got  up  with  cumbrous  haste,  as  a  horse 
might  rise.  He,  too,  looked  out  of  the  window,  tlien 
round  at  his  women  and  children,  and  clad  himself  in  an 
immense  coat. 

"I'll  just  go  out,"  he  whispered,  "and  see  how  things 
are.     If  there's  anything  wrong  I'll  let  you  know." 

He  intended  his  whisper  to  be  some!.hing  akin  to  silence; 
he  intended  to  exercise  tlie  utmost  consideration  for  those 
around  him;  but  his  long  remark  was  of  the  piercing 
quality  that  often  appertains  to  whispers,  and,  as  he  turned 
his  back,  two  of  the  children  woke,  and  a  young  girl  in  the 
seat  in  front  of  Sophia  sat  up,  her  grey  eyes  dilated  with 
alarm. 

"Sophia,"  she  said,  with  a  low  sob,  "oh,  Sophia,  is  there 
something  wrong  ?  " 

"Be  quiet!  "  said  Sophia,  tartly. 

The  snoring  mother  now  shut  her  mouth  with  a  snap. 
In  a  twinkling  she  was  up  and  lively. 

"  Has  your  father  got  on  his  overcoat,  Sophia?  Is  there 
danger? "  She  darted  from  one  side  of  the  carriage  to 
another,  rubbing  the  moisture  off  each  window  with  a  bit 
of  her  shawl  and  speaking  with  rapidity. 

Tlien  she  ran  out  of  the  car.     Two  of  the  children  fol- 


CHAP.  X] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOIVS 


89 


lowed  her.  The  others,  reassured  by  Sopliia's  stillness, 
huddled  together  at  the  windows,  shivering  in  the  draught 
of  cold  air  that  came  from  the  oi)en  door. 

After  some  minutes  Sophia's  father  came  in  again,  lead- 
ing his  wife  and  children  with  an  old-world  gallantry  that 
was  apparent  even  in  these  unsatisfactory  circumstances. 
He  had  a  slow  impressive  way  of  speaking  that  made  even 
his  unimportant  words  appear  important.  In  the  present 
case,  as  soon  as  he  began  to  speak  most  of  the  people  in  the 
car  came  near  to  hear. 

Some  obstruction,  he  said,  had  fallen  across  the  line.  It 
was  not  much;  the  men  would  soon  remove  it.  An  Indian 
woman,  who  lived  near,  had  heroically  lit  a  fire,  a,nd  thus 
stopped  the  train  in  time.  There  was  no  other  train  due 
upon  the  road  for  many  hours.  Tliere  was  no  danger. 
There  might  have  been  a  bad  accident,  but  they  had  been 
providentially  preserved. 

His  utterance  greatly  impressed  the  bystanders,  for  he 
was  an  important-looking  gentleman;  but  long  before  he 
had  finished  speaking,  the  bright-eyed  little  mother  had 
set  her  children  into  their  various  seats  again,  pulled  their 
jackets  close  in  front,  rolled  up  their  feet,  patted  their  caps 
down  on  their  heads,  and,  in  fact,  by  a  series  of  pokes  and 
pulls,  composed  her  family  to  sleep,  or,  at  least,  started 
them  as  far  on  the  way  to  sleep  as  a  family  can  be  sent  by 
such  a  method. 

Quiet  settled  on  the  car  again.  Soon  the  train  went  on. 
Sophia  Rexford,  looking  out,  could  dimly  discern  the  black 
outline  of  wood  and  river.  At  length  the  window  grew 
thicker  and  opaque.  There  was  no  sound  of  rain  or  hail, 
and  yet  something  from  without  muffled  the  glass.  Sophia 
slept  again. 

When  the  dawn  of  day  at  length  stole  upon  them  she 
found  that  snow  had  been  upon  the  glass  and  had  nudted. 
Snow  lay  thick  on  the  ledges  of  the  windows  outside.  Yet 
in  that  pv^.rt  of  the  country  in  which  they  now  were  there 
was  none  on  the  ground.     Tliey  seemed  to  have  run  a  race 


90  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  i 

with  a  snowstorm  in  the  night,  and  to  have  gained  it  for 
the  nonce.  But  the  sight  struck  her  sadly.  The  winter, 
which  she  dreaded,  was  evidently  on  their  track. 

It  was  in  the  first  grey  hour  of  dawn  that  the  train 
steamed  into  the  station,  which  was  the  junction  for  Quebec, 
and  passengers  bound  for  the  English  settlements  south  of 
that  city  were  obliged  to  change. 

For  a  few  minutes  before  the  train  stopped  the  llexford 
family  had  been  booted  and  spurred,  o  to  speak,  ready  for 
the  transfer.  Each  young  })erson  was  warmly  buttoned  u}) 
and  tied  into  a  warlike-looking  muffler.  Each  had  several 
packages  in  charge.  A  youth  came  in  from  the  smoking- 
car  and  attached  himself  to  them.  When  the  train  had 
come  to  a  standstill  the  little  French  conductor  was  ener- 
getic in  helping  them  to  descend. 

The  family  was  very  large,  and,  moreover,  it  was  lively; 
its  members  were  as  hard  to  count  as  chickens  of  a  brood. 
Sophia,  holding  the  youngest  child  and  the  tickets,  en- 
deavoured to  explain  their  number  to  the  conductor. 

"  There  are  three  children  that  go  free, "  she  said.  "  Then 
two  little  boys  at  half  fare — that  makes  one  ticket.  Myself 
and  three  young  ladies — make  five  tickets;  my  brother 
and  father  and  mother — eight." 

The  sharp  Frenchman  looked  dubious.  "  Three  children 
free;  two  at  half  fare,"  he  repeated.  He  was  trying  to  see 
them  all  as  he  spoke. 

Sophia  repeated  her  count  with  terse  severity. 

"There  was  not  another  young  lady?" 

"Certainly  not." 

And  Sophia  was  not  a  woman  to  be  trifled  with,  so  he 
punched  the  tickets  and  went  back  into  his  car. 

Wooden  platforms,  a  station  hotel  built  of  wood,  innum- 
erable lines  of  black  rails  on  which  freight  trains  stood  idle, 
the  whole  place  shut  in  by  a  high  wooden  fence — this  was 
the  prospect  which  met  the  eyes  of  the  English  travellers, 
and  seen  in  the  first  struggling  light  of  morning,  in  the  bit- 
ter cold  of  a  black  frost,  it  was  not  a  cheerful  one.     The 


Chap,  x] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


9« 


Rexford  family,  however,  were  not  considering  the  prospect; 
they  were  intent  only  on  finding  tlie  warm  passenger-car  of 
the  train  that  was  to  take  them  the  rest  of  their  journey, 
and  which  they  had  been  assured  would  be  waiting  here  to 
receive  them. 

This  train,  however,  was  not  immediately  to  be  seen,  and, 
in  the  meantime,  tlie  broad  platform,  which  was  dusted  over 
with  dry  frost  crystals,  was  the  scene  of  varied  activities. 

From  the  baggage-car  of  the  train  they  had  left,  a  great 
number  of  boxes  and  bags,  labelled  "Rexford,"  were  being 
thrown  down  in  a  violent  manner,  which  greatly  distressed 
some  of  the  girls  and  their  father. 

"  Not  that  way.  That  is-^jot  the  way.  Don't  you  know 
that  is  not  the  way  boxes  should  be  handled?"  shouted 
Captain  Rexford  sternly,  and  then,  seeing  that  no  one  paid 
the  slightest  attention  to  his  words,  he  was  fain  to  turn 
away  from  the  cause  of  Jiis  agitation.  He  took  a  brisk  turn 
down  the  empty  epd  of  the  platform,  and  stood  there  as  a 
man  might  who  felt  that  the  many  irritations  of  life  were 
growing  too  much  for  his  self-control. 

The  little  boys  found  occupation  because  they  observed 
that  the  white  condensed  vapour  which  came  from  their 
mouths  with  each  breath  bore  great  resemblance  to  the 
white  steam  a  slowly  moving  engine  was  hissing  forth. 
They  therefore  strutted  in  imitation  of  the  great  machine, 
emitting  large  puffs  from  their  little  warm  mouths,  and 
making  the  sound  which  a  groom  makes  when  he  plies  the 
curry-comb.  The  big  brother  was  assisting  in  the  unload- 
ing of  a  large  carriage  from  an  open  van  in  the  rear  of  the 
train,  and  Mrs.  Rexford,  neat,  quick-moving,  and  excitable, 
after  watching  this  operation  for  a  few  minutes  and  issuing 
several  orders  as  to  how  it  was  to  be  done,  moved  off  in 
lively  search  of  the  next  train.  She  ran  about,  a  few  steps 
in  each  direction,  looking  at  tlie  various  railway  lines,  and 
then  accosted  a  tall,  thin  man  who  was  standing  still,  doing 
nothing. 

"  Is  the  train  for  the  Eastern  Townships  here?    We  were 


H'//AT  NEC  ESS /TV  KNOT'S 


[book  I 


told  it  would  be  liere  waiting  to  receive  us  at  daybreak.  Is 
it  here?     Is  it  ready?" 

Seeing  from  the  man's  face,  as  she  had  already  seen  from 
the  empty  tracks,  that  no  such  train  was  in  readiness,  she 
ran  at  one  of  the  puffing  and  strutting  children  Avhose 
muffler  was  loose,  and  tied  it  up  again.  Then,  struck  by 
another  thought,  she  returned  to  the  impassive  man  whom 
she  had  before  addressed. 

"This  is  really  the  actual  dawn,  I  suppose?"  she  asked, 
with  an  air  of  importance.  "  I  have  read  tliat  in  some  coun- 
tries there  is  what  is  called  a  'false  dawn  '  that  comes  before 
the  real  one,  you  know." 

Compelled  now  to  speak,  the  man,  who  was  a  New  Eng- 
lander,  took  a  small  stick  from  between  his  teeth  and  said: 
"As  far  as  I  know,  marm,  this  morning  is  genuine.'' 

"  Oh  really  " — with  abatement  of  interest  in  her  tone — "  I 
thought  perhaps  there  might  be  that  sort  of  thing  in  Canada, 
you  know — we  certainly  read  of  Northern  Lights.  Very 
strange  that  our  train  isn't  here!  " 

The  Yankee  took  the  trouble  to  reply  again,  hardly  mov- 
ing a  muscle  of  his  face.  "  Keep  a  good  heart,  marm ;  it 
may  come  along  yet,  a-ridin'  on  these  same  Northern 
Lights." 

"Riding  on — ?  I  beg  your  pardon — on  what,  did  you 
say?"  she  asked  eagerly. 

At  this  the  grey-eyed  girl  who  had  been  frightened  in  the 
night  plucked  her  by  the  sleeve  and  pulled  her  away. 
"  Don't  you  see  he's  making  fun  of  you,  mamma?  " 

Besides  the  grey-eyed  girl,  who  wore  short  frocks,  there 
were  two  other  girls  in  the  first  bloom  of  young-woman- 
hood. One  of  these,  having  overheard  the  conversation, 
ran  and  told  the  other. 

"Just  because  we  happened  to  read  of  such  a  thing  in 
that  book  of  Asiatic  travel!  Isn't  it  absurd?  And  there's 
papa  fuming  at  the  other  end  of  the  station." 

13oth  girls  giggled. 

"  I  know  quite  well  that  people  will  think  us  all  crazy, " 


CHAP.  X] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


93 


urged  the  first  speaker.  Then  they  lauglied  again,  not 
unhappily. 

"There's  not  a  doubt  of  it,"  gasped  the  other. 

These  two  girls  v/ere  very  much  alike,  but  one  wore  a  red 
cloak  and  the  other  a  blue  one.  In  spite  of  tlie  fact  that 
they  were  somewhat  bloused  and  a  little  grimy,  and  their 
pretty  little  noses  were  now  nipped  red  by  the  icy  morning, 
they  looked  attractive  as  tliey  stood,  pressing  their  handker- 
chiefs to  their  mouths  and  bending  with  laughter.  The 
extent  of  their  mirth  was  proportioned  to  their  youth  and 
excitement,  not  to  the  circumstances  which  called  it  forth. 

The  train  they  had  left  now  moved  off.  Most  of  the 
other  passengers  who  had  alighted  with  them  had  taken 
themselves  away  in  various  directions,  as  travellers  are 
apt  to  do,  without  any  one  else  noticing  exactly  what  had 
become  of  them. 

Sophia,  with  the  child  in  her  arms,  made  her  way  to  a 
mean  waiting-room,  and  thither  the  children  followed  her. 
The  mother,  having  at  last  ascertained  the  train  would  be 
ready  in  the  course  of  time,  soon  came  in  also,  and  the 
father  and  brother,  hearing  it  would  not  be  ready  for  at 
least  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  went  away  to  see  the  town. 

There  was  a  stove  burning  hotly  in  the  small  waiting- 
room.  The  only  other  furniture  was  a  bench  all  round  the 
wall.  The  family,  that  had  entered  somewhat  tumultu- 
ously,  almost  filled  it.  There  was  only  one  other  traveller 
there,  a  big  girl  with  a  shawl  over  her  head  and  a  bundle 
under  her  arm.  When  Sophia  had  come  into  the  room 
alone  with  the  baby,  she  had  asked  the  girl  one  or  two 
questions,  and  been  answered  civilly  enough;  but  when 
the  rest  of  the  family  followed,  the  girl  relapsed  into 
silence,  and,  after  regarding  them  for  a  little  while,  she 
edged  her  way  out  of  the  room. 

Mrs.  Rexford,  who  in  the  excitement  of  change  and 
bustle  was  always  subject  to  being  struck  with  ideas  which 
would  not  have  occurred  to  her  mind  at  other  times,  sud- 
denly remembered  now  that  they  were  dependent  upon  the 


94 


WHAT  NKCKSS/TV  KNOWS 


[book  I 


resources  of  the  new  country  for  doniestio  service,  and  tliat 
she  had  lieard  that  no  cliance  of  securing  a  good  servant 
must  he  h)st,  as  tliey  were  very  rare.  Stating  her  thought 
liastily  to  Sophia,  and  darting  to  the  narrow  door  without 
waiting  for  a  reply,  she  stretched  out  her  head  with  an 
ebullition  of  registry-office  questions. 

"My  good  girl!  "  she  cried,  "my  good  girl!  " 

The  girl  came  back  nearer  the  door  and  stood  still. 

"  Do  you  happen  to  know  of  a  girl  about  your  ag(5  who 
can  do  kitchen  work?  " 

"I  don't  know  any  one  here.     I'm  travelling." 

"But  perhaps  you  would  do  for  me  yourself" — this  half 
aside — "Can  you  make  a  fire,  keep  pots  clean,  and  scour 
floors?  " 

"Yes."     She  did  not  express  any  interest  in  her  assent. 

"Where  are  you  going?  Would  you  not  like  to  come 
with  me  and  enter  my  service?  1  happen  to  be  in  need  of 
just  such  a  girl  as  you." 

No  answer. 

"She  doesn't  understand,  mamma,"  whispered  the  grey- 
eyed  girl  in  a  short  frock,  who,  having  wedged  herself  be- 
side her  mother  in  the  narrow  doorway,  was  the  only  one 
who  could  see  or  hear  the  colloquy.  "  Speak  slower  to  the 
poor  thing." 

"Looks  very  stupid,"  commented  Mrs.  Rexford,  hastily 
pulling  in  her  head  and  speaking  within  the  room.  "  But 
still,  one  must  not  lose  a  chance."  Then,  with  head  again 
outside,  she  continued,  "  Do  you  understand  me,  my  good 
girl?    What  is  your  name?  " 

"Eliza  White." 

"  That  is  a  very  good  name  " — encouragingly.  "  Where 
do  you  live?  " 

"  I  used  to  live  a  good  bit  over  there,  in  the  French  coun- 
try." She  pointed  with  her  arm  in  a  certain  direction, 
but  as  the  points  of  the  compass  had  no  existence  for 
Mrs.  Rexford's  newly  immigrated  intelligence,  and  as  all 
parts  of  Canada,  near  and  remote,  seemed  very  much  in 


CHAP.  X] 


H7/AT  NECESS/TV  KNOWS 


"5 


the  same  place  in  her  iiolmlous  vision  of  geography,  the 
little  inforiiuitiou  tlie  girl  hail  given  was  of  no  interest  to 
her  and  she  took  little  note  of  it. 

"Did  you  eonie  from  Quebec  just  now?  " 

"Yes,"  replied  the  girl,  after  a  moment's  pause. 

Then,  in  answer  to  furtiier  questions,  she  told  a  succint 
tale.  She  said  that  her  fatlier  had  a  farm;  that  he  had 
died  the  week  before;  that  she  had  no  relatives  in  the 
place;  tliat,  having  seen  her  father  buried,  she  thought  it 
best  to  come  to  an  English-speaking  locality,  and  wait 
there  until  she  had  time  to  write  to  her  father's  brother 
in  Scotland. 

"  Sad,  sad  story !  Lonely  fate !  Brave  girl !  "  said  Mrs. 
Rexford,  shaking  her  head  for  a  minute  inside  the  waiting- 
room  and  rai)idly  repeating  the  tale. 

"Yes,  if  it's  true,"  said  Sojdiia.  But  Mrs.  Ilexford  did 
not  hear,  as  she  had  already  turned  her  head  out  of  the  door 
again,  and  was  commending  Eliza  White  for  the  course  she 
had  taken. 

The  grey-eyed  Winifred,  however,  still  turned  inside  to 
combat  reproachfully  Sophia's  suspicions.  "  You  would 
not  doubt  her  word,  Sophia,  if  you  saw  how  cold  and  tired 
she  looked." 

Mrs.  Rexford  seemed  to  argue  concerning  the  stranger's 
truthfulness  in  very  much  the  same  way,  for  she  was 
saying:— 

"And  now,  Eliza,  will  you  be  my  servant?  If  you  will 
come  with  me  to  Chellaston  I  will  pay  your  fare,  and  I 
will  take  care  of  you  until  you  hear  from  your  uncle." 

"I  do  not  want  to  be  a  servant."  The  reply  was  stolidly 
given. 

"What!  do  you  wish  to  be  idle?" 

"  I  will  work  in  your  house,  if  you  like ;  but  I  can  pay 
ray  own  fare  in  the  cars,  and  I  won't  be  a  servant." 

There  was  so  much  sullen  determination  in  her  manner 
that  Mrs.  Rexford  did  not  attempt  to  argue  the  point. 

Take  her,  mamma,"  whispered  Winifred.     " How  ill  she 


iir\ 


CHAPTER  XI. 


The  village  of  Cliellaston  was,  in  itself,  insignificant.  Its 
chief  income  was  derived  from  summer  visitors ;  its  largest 
building  was  an  hotel,  greatly  frequented  in  summer;  and 
its  best  houses  were  owned  by  townspeople,  who  used  them 
only  at  that  season.     That  which  gave  Cliellaston  a  position 


96  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [hook  1 

seems!  And  she  must  bo  awfully  lonely  in  tliis  great  coun- 
try all  alone." 

Mrs.  K(!xford,  having  turned  into  the  room,  was  rapidly 
commenting  to  Sophia.  "Says  she  will  come,  but  won't  be 
calh'd  a  servant,  and  can  jmy  her  own  fare.  Very  jjoculiar 
— but  we  read,  you  know,  in  that  New  England  book,  that 
that  was  just  the  independent  way  they  felt  about  it.  They 
can  only  induce  slaves  to  be  servants  there,  I  believe."  She 
gave  this  cursory  view  of  the  condition  of  affairs  in  the 
neighbouring  States  in  an  abstracted  voice,  and  summed  up 
her  remarks  by  speaking  out  her  decision  in  a  more  lively 
tone.  "  Well,  we  must  have  some  one  to  help  with  the 
work.  This  girl  looks  strong,  and  her  spirit  in  the  matter 
signifies  less."  Then,  turning  to  the  girl  without  the  door: 
"  I  think  you  will  suit  me,  Eliza.  You  can  stay  with  us,  at 
any  rate,  till  you  hear  from  your  uncle.  You  look  strong 
and  clean,  and  I'm  sure  you'll  do  your  best  to  please  me  " — 
this  with  warning  emphasis.  "  Come  in  now  to  the  warmth 
beside  us.     We  can  make  room  in  liere." 

The  place  was  so  small  and  the  family  so  large  that  the 
last  assurance  was  not  wholly  unnecessary.  Mrs.  Rexford 
brought  Eliza  in  and  set  her  near  the  stove.  The  girls  and 
children  gathered  round  her  somewhat  curiously,  but  she  sat 
erect  without  seeming  to  notice  them  much,  an  expression 
of  impassive,  almost  hardened,  trouble  on  her  pale  face.  '      i 

She  was  a.  very  tall,  strong  girl,  and  when  she  dropped  the 
shawl  back  a  little  from  her  head  they  saw  that  she  had  red 
hair. 


CHAP.  XI] 


ir/fAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


97 


and  niimo  iil)ove  other  pliioos  ot  the  samo  size  in  the  coun- 
try wa.s  iin  institution  ciilhHl  "The  New  College,"  in  whieh 
boys  up  to  the  age  of  eighteen  w(a'e  given  a  higher  edueation 
than  could  be  obtained  at  ordinary  seluxds.  The  college 
wasascjuare  brick  building,  not  handsome,  but  coniniodious; 
and  in  the  same  enclosure  with  it  were  the  head-master's 
house,  and  a  boarding-house  in  which  the  assistant-nuisters 
lived  witii  the  pupils.  With  that  love  of  grand  terms  which 
a  new  country  is  apt  to  evince,  the  head-master  was  called 
"The  l*rincii»al,  "  and  his  assistants  "]*rofessors.'''  The 
New  CoUege  was  understood  to  have  the  future  of  a  uni- 
versity, but  its  present  function  was  meridy  that  of  a  public 
school. 

Chellaston  was  prettily  situated  by  a  well-wooded  hill 
and  a  fair  flowing  river.  The  college,  with  some  fields  that 
were  cultivated  for  its  use,  was  a  little  apart  from  most  of 
the  houses,  placed,  both  as  to  nhysical  and  social  position, 
between  the  commonplace  village  and  the  farms  of  the 
undulating  land  around  it;  for,  by  a  curious  drift  of  cir- 
cumstances, the  farms  of  this  district  were  chiefly  worked 
by  Inglish  gentlemen,  whose  families,  in  lieu  of  all  other 
worldly  advantage,  held  the  more  stoutly  by  their  family 
traditions.  In  doing  so  they  were  but  treasuring  their  only 
heirloom.  And  they  did  not  expect  to  gain  from  the  near 
future  any  new  source  of  pride ;  for  it  is  not  those  who,  as 
convention  terms  it,  are  the  best  born  who  most  easily 
gather  again  the  moss  of  prosperiLy  when  that  which  has 
been  about  them  for  generations  has  once  been  removed. 
They  were,  indeed,  a  set  of  people  who  exhibited  more 
sweetness  of  nature  than  thrift.  Elegance,  even  of  the 
simplest  sort,  was  almost  unknown  in  their  homes,  and  fash- 
ion was  a  word  that  had  only  its  remotest  echoes  there; 
yet  they  prided  themselves  upon  adhering  strictly  to  rules 
of  ])ehaviour  which  in  their  mother-country  had  already 
fallen  into  the  grave  of  outgrown  ideas.  Their  little  soci- 
ety was,  indeed,  a  curious  thing,  in  which  the  mincing 
propriety  of  the  Old  World  had  wed  itself  right  loyally  to 


98 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  I 


the  stern  necessity  of  the  New.  How  stern  such  necessity 
might  be,  the  Kexford  family,  who  came  rolling  into  this 
state  of  things  in  tlieir  own  family  carriage,  had  yet  to  learn. 
It  was  to  the  Principalship  of  the  New  College  that 
Kobert  Trenholme,  by  virtue  of  scholastic  honours  from 
Oxford,  had  attained.  Although  a  young  man  for  the  post, 
it  was  admitted  by  all  that  he  filled  it  admirably.  The 
scliool  had  increased  considerably  in  the  three  years  of  his 
management.  And  if  Trenholme  adapted  himself  to  the 
place,  the  place  was  also  adapted  to  him,  for  by  it  he  held 
an  assured  standing  in  the  country;  he  could,  as  the  saying 
is,  mix  with  the  best;  and  he  valued  his  position.  Why 
should  he  not  value  it?  He  had  won  it  honourably,  and  he 
cherished  it  merely  as  the  greatest  of  his  earthly  goods, 
which  he  believed  he  held  in  due  subordination  to  more 
heavenly  benefits.  Those  lives  are  no  doubt  the  most  peace- 
ful in  which  self-interest  and  duty  coalesce,  and  Trenholme's 
life  at  this  period  was  like  a  fine  cord,  composed  of  these 
two  strands  twisted  together  with  exquisite  equality.  His 
devotion  to  duty  was  such  as  is  frequently  seen  when  a  man 
of  sanguine,  energetic  temperament  throws  the  force  of  his 
being  into  battle  for  the  right.  He  had  added  to  his  school 
duties  voluntary  service  in  the  small  English  church  of 
Chellaston,  partly  because  the  congregation  found  it  hard 
to  support  a  clergyman;  partly  because  he  preferred  keeping 
his  schoolboys  under  the  influence  of  his  own  sermons,  which 
wei'i  certainly  superior  to  those  of  such  clergymen  as  were 
likely  to  come  there;  and  partly,  if  not  chiefly,  because  the 
activity  of  his  nature  made  such  serving  a  delight  to  him. 
The  small  church,  like  the  school,  had  been  greatly  improved 
since  it  had  come  under  his  hand,  and  the  disinterestedness 
of  his  unpaid  ministrations  was  greatly  lauded.  He  was 
a  very  busy,  and  a  successful,  man,  much  esteemed  by  all 
who  knew  him.  The  New  College  was  expected  to  become 
a  university ;  ilobert  Trenholme  hoped  for  this  and  expected 
to  remain  at  its  head,  but  this  hope  of  his  was  by  the  way; 
he  did  not  think  of  it  often,  for  he  loved  work  for  its  owi; 


CHAP.  Xl] 


IVHAT  JVECESS/rV  AWOH^'S 


99 


6 
S 

e 
s 
n 
s 
.1 
f 


sake.  Even  the  value  he  set  on  his  present  success  was  not 
often  more  actively  in  his  mind  than  the  value  he  set  on 
the  fresh  air  lie  breathed.  It  was  very  occasionally  that 
the  pride  of  him  came  to  the  surface,  and  then  chiefly  when 
animated  by  the  memory  of  the  time  v-hen  he  had  been  at 
a  disadvantage  in  worldly  things.  Such  memories  came  to 
him  when  he  prepared  to  go  to  the  railway  station  to  meet 
the  Rexfords.  He  concealed  it  perfectly,  but  it  gave  him 
certain  swellings  of  heart  to  think  that  Miss  Rexford  would 
now  gradually  see  all  to  which  he  had  attained. 

When  Captain  Rexford  had  decided  upon  buying  a  farm 
at  Chellaston,  he  had  had  some  correspondence  with  Princi- 
pal Trenholme  on  the  subject,  having  been  put  into  com- 
munication with  him  by  the  widow  of  the  relative  at  whose 
house  Sophia  and  Trenholme  had  first  met.  This  was  the 
whole  extent  of  the  acquaintance.  Of  Sophia's  stepmother 
and  her  numerous  children  Robert  Trenholme  knew  nothing, 
save  that  a  second  family  existed.  Nor  did  Captain  Rexford 
imagine  that  his  eldest  daughter  had  any  distinct  remem- 
brance of  a  man  whom  she  had  so  casually  known.  Fathers 
are  apt  to  assume  that  they  know  the  precise  extent  of  their 
daughters'  acquaintanceships,  for  the  same  reason  that  most 
people  assume  that  what  they  never  heard  of  does  not  exist. 
Yet  when  Trenholme  actually  repaired  to  the  station  at  the 
hour  at  which  Captain  Rexford  had  announced  his  arrival, 
it  was  a  fact  that  many  of  his  leisure  thoughts  for  a  month 
back  had  been  pointing  forward,  like  so  many  guide-posts, 
to  the  meeting  that  was  there  to  take  place,  and  it  was  also 
true  that  the  Rexford  family — older  and  younger — were 
prepared  to  hail  him  as  a  friend,  simply  because  their 
knowledge  of  him,  though  slight,  was  so  much  greater  than 
of  any  other  being  in  the  place  to  which  they  were  come — 
and  everything  in  this  world  goes  by  comparison. 

Now  the  main  feature  of  the  arrival  of  the  Rexford  family 
in  Chellaston  was  that  they  brought  their  own  carriage  with 
them.  It  was  an  old,  heavy  carriage,  for  it  had  come  into 
Captain  Rexford's  possession  in  the  first  place  by  inheri- 


100 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  I 


tance,  and  it  was  now  a  great  many  years  since  he  had 
possessed  horses  to  draw  it.  From  its  long  and  ignominious 
retreat  in  an  outhouse  it  had  lately  emerged  to  be  varnished 
and  furbished  anew,  in  order  to  make  the  handsomer 
appearance  in  the  new  country.  It  had  been  one  of  the 
considerations  which  had  reconciled  Mrs.  Kexford  to  emi- 
gration, that  on  a  farm  this  carriage  could  be  used  with 
little  extra  expense. 

Principal  Trenholme  had  come  to  the  station,  which  was 
a  little  way  from  the  village,  in  a  smart  gig  of  his  own. 
According  to  Captain  Rexford's  instructions,  he  had  sent  to 
the  station  a  pair  of  horses,  to  be  harnessed  to  the  aforesaid 
carriage,  which  had  been  carefully  brought  on  the  same  train 
with  its  owners.  He  had  also  sent  of  his  own  accord  a 
comfortable  waggon  behind  the  horses,  and  he  straightway 
urged  that  the  family  should  repair  in  this  at  once  to  their 
new  home,  and  leave  the  carriage  to  be  set  upon  its  wheels 
at  leisure.  As  he  gave  this  advice  he  eyed  the  wheelless 
coach  with  a  curiosity  and  disfavour  which  was  almost 
apparent  through  his  studious  politeness. 

His  arguments,  however,  and  Captain  Rexford's,  who 
agreed  with  him,  were  of  no  avail.  Mrs.  Eexford,  partly 
from  sentiment,  partly  from  a  certain  pathetic  vanity,  had 
set  her  heart  on  driving  to  the  new  home  in  the  old  carriage. 
Captain  Eexford's  eldest  son  had  helped  to  get  the  vehicle 
off  the  train,  and  was  now  working  steadily  with  one  of  the 
station  hands  to  get  it  upon  its  wheels.  It  was  assuredly 
such  a  carriage  as  that  bit  of  Canadian  road  had  never  seen 
before.  The  station  loiterers,  sometimes  helping  in  its 
arrangement,  sometimes  merely  looking  on,  gazed  at  it  with 
unwavering  attention.  Robert  Trenholme  gazed  at  it  also, 
and  at  last  felt  obliged  to  give  some  more  distinct  warning 
of  difficulties  he  foresaw. 

"We  have  native  horses,"  he  said,  with  a  good-humoured 
smile  that  leaped  out  of  his  eyes  before  it  parted  his  lips; 
"  we  have  horses,  and  we  have  ponies,  and  I  am  afraid  that 
a  pair  of  the  one  would  be  as  serviceable  in  the  long  run  as 


,  I 


CHAP.  XIl] 


WHAT  NEC  ESS /TV  KNOWS 


101 


a  pair  of  the  other  in  drawing  it  on  these  loads.  Are  you 
getting  out  carriage-horses  from  England,  Captain  Rex- 
ford?" 

Tlie  gentleman  addressed  continued  to  set  the  cushions  in 
their  places,  but  in  a  minute  he  went  back  into  the  station, 
where  by  a  stove  he  found  his  wife  and  Sophia  warming 
themselves,  the  smallest  children,  and  a  pot  of  carriage  oil. 

"You  know,  my  dears,  I  never  felt  quite  clear  in  my 
own  mind  that  it  was  wise  of  us  to  bring  the  carriage."  He 
held  his  hands  to  the  warmth  as  he  spoke.  "Mr.  Tren- 
holme,  I  find,  seems  to  think  it  hc^avy  for  these  roads." 

His  wife  heard  him  quite  cheerially.  "  In  weather  like 
this  nothing  could  be  more  desirable,"  said  she,  "than  to 
have  one's  own  comfortably  cushioned  carriage ;  and  besides, 
I  have  always  told  you  we  owe  it  to  our  children  to  show 
the  people  here  that,  whatever  misfortunes  we  liave  had, 
we  have  been  people  of  consequence."  She  added  after  a 
moment  in  conclusion :  "  Harold  has  brought  the  best  grease 
for  the  wheels." 

She  had  her  way  therefore,  and  in  course  of  time  the 
ladies,  and  as  many  of  the  children  as  could  be  crowded 
into  the  carriage,  thus  commenced  the  last  stage  of  their 
journey.  The  others  were  driven  on  by  Trenholme.  As 
for  the  little  boys,  "a  good  run  behind,"  their  mother  said, 
was  just  what  they  needed  to  warm  them  up. 

They  began  running  behind,  but  soon  ran  in  front,  which 
rather  confused  Mrs.  Rexford's  ideas  of  order,  but  still  the 
carriage  lumbered  on. 


Id 

'  5 
it 


CHAPTER   XII. 

Captain  Rexford  had  no  fortune  with  his  second  wife; 
and  their  children  numbered  seven  daughters  and  three  sons. 
It  was  natural  that  the  expenses  of  so  large  a  family  should 
have  proved  too  much  for  a  slender  income  in  an  English 
town  where  a  certain  style  of  living  had  been  deemed  a 


loa  JVHAT  NECESSlJy  KNOWS  [book  i 

necessity.  When,  further,  a  mercantile  disaster  had  swept 
away  the  larger  part  of  this  income,  the  anxious  parents 
had  felt  that  there  was  nothing  left  for  their  children  but  a 
choice  between  degrading  dependence  on  the  bounty  of  others 
and  emigration.  From  the  new  start  in  life  which  the  latter 
course  would  give  they  had  large  hopes.  Accordingly,  they 
gathered  together  all  that  they  had,  and,  with  a  loan  from 
a  richer  relati  /e,  purchased  a  house  and  farir  in  a  locality 
where  they  were  told  their  children  would  not  wholly  lack 
educational  opportunities  or  society.  This  move  of  theirs 
was  heroic,  but  whether  wise  or  unwise  remained  to  be 
proved  \yj  the  result  of  indefinite  years.  The  extent  of  their 
wealth  was  now  this  new  property,  an  income  which,  in  pro- 
portion to  their  needs,  was  a  mere  pittance,  and  the  debt  to 
the  richer  relative. 

The  men  who  came  to  call  on  their  new  neighbour,  and 
congratulate  him  on  his  clioice  of  a  farm,  did  not  knew  how 
small  was  the  income  nor  how  big  the  debt,  yet  even  they 
shook  their  heads  dubiously  as  they  thought  of  their  own 
difficulties,  and  remarked  to  each  other  that  such  a  large 
family  was  certainly  a  great  responsibility. 

"I  wonder,"  said  one  to  another,  "if  Rexford  had  an 
idea  in  coming  here  that  he  would  marry  his  daughters 
easily.  It's  a  natural  thing,  you  know,  when  one  hears  of 
the  flower  c :'  British  youth  leaving  England  for  the  Colonies, 
to  imagine  that,  in  a  place  like  this,  girls  would  be  at  a 
premium.  I  did.  When  we  came  out  I  said  to  my  wife 
that  when  our  little  girls  grew  up  they  might  pick  and 
choose  for  themselves  from  among  a  dozen  suitors,  but — 
well,  this  isn't  just  the  locality  for  that,  is  it?  " 

Both  men  laughed  a  little.  They  knew  that,  however 
difficult  it  might  be  to  find  the  true  explanation  of  the  fact, 
the  fact  remained  that  there  were  no  young  men  in  Chellas- 
ton,  that  boys  who  grew  up  there  went  as  inevitably  else- 
where to  make  tlieir  fortunes  as  they  would  have  done  from 
an  English  country  town. 

Among  the  ladies  who  came  to  see  Mrs.  Rexford  and 


««if 


CHAP.  Xii]  WHAT  NECESS/TV  KNOWS 


«03 


count  her  cliildren,  the  feeling  concerning  her  was  more 
nearly  allied  to  kindly  commiseration  than  she  would  at  all 
have  liked  had   she   known  it.      They  said  that  Captain 

llexford  might  succeed  if  his  wife  and  daughters Each 

would  complete  the  conditional  clause  in  her  own  way,  but 
it  was  clear  to  the  minds  of  all  that  the  success  of  the 
Kexford  farm  would  depend  to  a  great  extent  upon  the 
economy  and  good  management  practised  in  the  house. 

Nowthe  Rexfords,  man,  woman,  and  child,  had  come  with 
brave  hearts,  intending  to  work  and  to  economise ;  yet  they 
found  what  was  actually  required  of  them  different  from  all 
that  their  fancy  had  pictured;  and  their  courage,  not  being 
obliged  to  face  those  dangers  to  which  they  had  adjusted  it, 
and  being  forced  to  face  much  to  which  it  was  not  adjusted, 
suffered  shock,  and  took  a  little  time  to  rally  into  moderate 
animation. 

At  the  end  of  their  weary  journey  they  had  found  them- 
selves in  a  large  wooden  house,  not  new  by  any  means,  or 
smart  in  any  of  its  appointments;  and,  as  convenience  is 
very  much  a  matter  of  custom,  it  appeared  to  them  incon- 
venient— a  house  in  which  room  was  set  against  room 
without  vestige  of  lobby  or  passage-way,  and  in  which 
there  were  almost  as  many  doors  to  the  outside  as  there 
were  windows.  They  had  bought  it  and  its  furniture  as  a 
mere  adjunct  to  a  farm  which  they  had  chosen  with  more 
care,  and  when  they  inspected  it  for  the  first  time  their 
hearts  sank  somewhat  within  them.  Captain  Rexford, 
with  impressive  sadness,  remarked  to  his  wife  that  there 
was  a  greater  lack  of  varnish  and  upholstery  and  of  traces 
of  the  turning  lathe  than  he  could  have  supposed  possible 
in — *^ furniture."  But  his  wife  had  bustled  away  before  he 
had  quite  finished  his  speech.  Whatever  she  might  feel, 
she  at  least  expressed  no  discouragement.  Torture  does 
not  draw  from  a  brave  woman  expressions  of  dismay. 

That  which  gave  both  Mrs.  Rexford  and  Sophia  much 
perplexity  in  the  first  day  or  two  of  the  new  life  was  that 
the  girl  Eliza  seemed  to  them  to  prove  wholly  incompetent. 


104 


PVNAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  I 


She  moved  in  a  dazed  and  weary  fashion  which  was  quite 
inconsistent  with  the  intelligence  and  capacity''  occasionally 
displayed  in  her  remarks;  and  had  they  in  the  first  three 
days  been  able  to  hear  of  another  servant,  Mrs.  Kext'urd 
would  have  abrujjtly  cancelled  her  agreement  with  Eliza. 
At  the  end  of  that  time,  however,  when  there  came  a  day 
on  which  Mrs.  Kexford  and  Sophia  were  both  too  oxhausced 
by  uni)acking  and  housework  to  take  their  ordinary  share 
of  responsibility,  Eliza  suddenly  seemed  to  awake  and 
shake  herself  into  thought  and  action.  She  cleared  the 
house  of  the  litter  of  packing-cases,  set  their  contents  in 
order,  and  showed  lier  knowledge  of  the  mysteries  of  the 
kitchen  in  a  manner  which  fed  the  family  and  sent  them 
to  bed  more  comfortably  than  since  their  arrival.  From 
that  day  Eliza  became  more  cheerful;  and  she  not  only  did 
her  own  work,  but  often  aided  others  in  theirs,  and  set  the 
household  right  in  all  its  various  elforts  towards  becoming 
a  model  Canadian  home.  If  the  ladies  had  not  had  quite 
so  much  to  learn,  or  if  the  three  little  children  had  not 
been  quite  so  helpless,  Eliza's  work  would  have  appeared 
more  effective.  As  it  was,  the  days  passed  on,  and  no 
tragedy  occurred. 

It  was  a  great  relief  to  Captain  and  Mrs.  Rexford  in 
those  days  to  turn  to  Principal  Trenholme  for  society  and 
advice.  He  was  their  nearest  neighbour,  and  had  easy 
opportunity  for  being  as  friendly  and  kind  as  he  evidently 
desired  to  be.  Captain  Rexford  pronounced  him  a  fine 
fellow  and  a  perfect  gentleman.  Captain  Rexford  had 
great  natural  courtesy  of  disposition. 

"I  suppose,  Principal  Trenholme,"  said  he  blandly,  as 
he  entertained  his  visitor  one  day  in  the  one  family  sitting- 
room,  "  I  suppose  that  you  are  related  to  the  Trenholmes 
of ?" 

Trenholme  was  playing  with  one  of  the  little  ones  who 
stood  between  his  knees.  He  did  not  instantly  answer — 
indeed,  Captain  Rexford's  manner  was  so  deliberate  that  it 
left  room  for  pauses.     Sophia,  in  cloak  and  fur  bonnet, 


CHAP,  xiij  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


105 


I 


was  standing  by  the  window,  ready  to  take  the  children  for 
their  airing.  Trenlioline  found  time  to  look  up  from  his 
tiny  playmate  and  steal  a  glance  at  lier  handsome  profile 
as  she  gazed,  with  thoughtful,  abstracted  air,  out  upon  the 
snow. 

"Not  a  very  near  connection,  Captain  Rexford,"  was  his 
reply;  and  it  was  given  with  that  frank  smile  which  always 
leaped  first  to  his  eyes  before  it  showed  itself  about  his 
mouth. 

It  would  have  been  impossible  for  a  much  closer  observer 
than  Captain  Rexford  to  liave  told  on  which  word  of  this 
small  sentence  the  emphasis  had  been  given,  or  whether 
the  smile  meant  that  Principal  Trenholme  could  have 
proved  his  relationship  liad  he  chosen,  or  that  he  laughed 
at  tlie  notion  of  there  being  any  relationship  at  all.  Cap- 
tain Rexford  accordingly  iiiterpreted  it  just  as  suited  his 
inclination,  and  mentioned  to  another  neighbour  in  the 
course  of  a  week  that  his  friend,  the  Principal  of  the  Col- 
lege, was  a  distant  relative,  by  a  younger  branch  probably, 

of  the  Trenholmes  of ,  etc.  etc.,  an  item   of   news   of 

which  the  whole  town  took  account  sooner  or  later. 

To  Mrs.  Rexford  Trenholme  was  chiefly  useful  as  a  per- 
son of  whom  she  could  ask  questions,  and  she  wildly  asked 
his  advice  on  every  possible  subject.  On  account  of 
Captain  Rexford's  friendly  approval,  and  his  value  to  Mrs. 
Rexford  as  a  sort  01  guide  to  useful  knowledge  on  the  sub- 
ject of  Canada  in  general  and  Chellaston  in  particular, 
Robert  Trenholme  soon  became  intimate,  in  easy  Canadian 
fashion,  with  the  newcomers ;  that  is,  with  the  heads  of  the 
household,  with  the  romping  children  and  the  pretty  babies. 
The  young  girls  were  not  sufficiently  forward  in  social  arts 
to  speak  much  to  a  visitor,  and  with  Sophia  he  did  not  feel 
at  all  on  a  sure  footing. 

After  this  little  conversation  with  Captain  Rexford  about 
his  relatives,  and  when  Sophia  had  received  the  other 
children  from  the  hands  of  Eliza  and  repaired  with  them  to 
the  house  door,  Trenholme  also  took  leave,  and  rose  to 
accompany  her  as  far  as  the  gate. 


lo6  IVHAT  NEC  ESS /TV  KNOWS  [book  i 

Sophia  shivered  a  little  when  she  stepped  out  upon  the 
narrow  wooden  gallery  in  front  of  the  door. 

The  Rexford  house  was  not  situated  in  the  midst  of  the 
farm,  but  between  the  main  road  that  ran  out  of  the  village 
and  the  river  that  here  lay  for  some  distance  parallel  with 
the  road.  On  the  next  lot  of  land  stood  an  empty  house  in 
the  centre  of  a  larg'e  deserted  garden;  and  on  the  other 
side  of  the  road,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  off,  stood  the 
college  buildings,  which  were  plainly  to  be  seen  over  flat 
fields  and  low  log  fences.  Beyond  the  college  grounds 
were  woods  and  pastures,  and  beyond  again  rose  Chellaston 
Mountain.  This  view  was  what  Sophia  and  Trenholme 
looked  upon  as  they  stood  on  the  verandah;  and  all  that 
they  sav — field,  road,  roof,  tree,  and  hill — was  covered 
with  spfirkling  snow.  It  was  a  week  since  the  snow  came, 
and  Sophia  still  shivered  a  little  whenever  she  looked 
at  it. 

"  I  an  sorry  to  see  you  do  not  look  upon  this  scene  as 
if  ic  rejoiced  your  heart,"  he  said.  "When  you  know  it 
bettor,  you  will,  I  hope,  love  it  as  I  do.  It  is  a  glorious 
climate.  Miss  Rexford;  it  is  a  glorious  country.  The 
depressions  and  fears  that  grow  up  with  one's  life  in  the 
Old  World  fall  away  from  one  in  tiiis  wonderful  air,  with 
the  stimulus  of  a  new  world  and  a  strong  young  nation  all 
around.  This  snow  is  not  cold;  it  is  warm.  In  this  garden 
of  yours  it  is  just  now  acting  as  a  blanket  for  the  germs  of 
flowers  that  could  not  live  through  an  English  winter,  but 
will  live  here,  and  next  summer  will  astonish  you  with 
their  richness.  Nor  is  it  cold  for  you;  it  is  dry  as  dust; 
you  can  walk  over  it  in  moccasins,  and  not  be  damp:  and 
it  has  covered  away  all  the  decay  of  autumn,  conserving 
for  you  in  the  air  such  pure  oxygen  that  it  will  be  like  new 
life  in  your  veins,  causing  you  to  laugh  at  the  frost." 

"I  have  not  your  enthusiasm,"  she  replied.  Together 
they  led  the  unsteady  feet  of  the  little  ones  dow^n  the  crisp 
snow  path  which  Harold's  industrious  shovel  had  made. 

Trenholme  spoke  briefly  of  the  work  he  was  trying  to  do 


CHAP.  XII]  IVHAT  NKCESS/ry  KNOT'S 


107 


cl 


If 


F 
IP 

lo 


in  liis  school.  A  clergyman  has  social  licence  to  be  serious 
which  is  not  accorded  to  other  men.  Wherefore  he  spoke 
as  a  clergyman  might  speak  to  a  friend,  saying,  in  general 
terms,  liow  steep  is  the  ascent  when,  among  mundane 
affairs,  human  beings  try  to  tread  only  where  the  angels  of 
the  higher  life  may  lead. 

Sophia  assented,  feeling  a  little  sharp  because  it  seemed 
to  her  that  he  was  taking  up  the  thread  of  his  acquaintance 
with  her  just  where  it  had  formerly  parted  when  slie  had 
thrown  before  him  the  gauntlet  of  such  high  resolves  and 
heavenly  aims  as  young  girls  can  easily  talk  about  when 
they  know  as  yet  nothing  of  their  fulfilment.  Whether  or 
not  Sophia  knew  more  of  their  fulfilment  since  then,  she 
had,  at  least,  learned  a  more  humble  reverence  for  the  very 
thought  of  such  struggles,  and  she  was  quite  ready  to  be- 
lieve that  the  man  to  whom  she  had  once  called  to  come 
onward  had  by  this  time  far  outstripped  her  in  the  race. 
She  was  ready  for  this  belief,  but  she  had  not  accepted  it, 
because,  as  yet  confused  and  excited  by  all  that  was  new, 
she  *had  formed  no  conclusion  whatever  with  regard  to 
Trenholme.  It  had  puzzled  her  somewhat  from  the  outset 
to  find  him  such  a  model  of  elegance  in  the  matter  of  clothes 
and  manners.  She  had,  somehow,  fancied  that  he  would 
have  a  long  beard  and  wear  an  old  coat.  Insteau  of  that, 
his  usual  manner  of  accosting  her  reminded  her  more  of 
those  fashion  plates  in  which  one  sees  tailors'  blocks  tak- 
ing off  their  hats  to  one  another.  She  did  not  think  this 
was  to  his  disadvantage;  she  did  not,  as  yet,  think  dis- 
tinctly on  the  matter  at  all.  She  certainly  had  no  time  to 
deliberate  during  this  particular  conversation,  for  her  com- 
panion, having  only  a  few  minutes  to  utilise,  was  in  a 
talkative  humour.  Having  spoken  of  his  own  work,  and 
made  the  more  general  observations  on  the  difficulties  of 
what  is  commonly  called  the  "narrow  road,"  in  a  quiet, 
honest  way,  he  said  something  more  personal. 

"  I  have  always  felt.  Miss  Rexford,  that  it  would  be  a 
pleasure  to  me  to  see  you  again,  because  of  the  strength 


io8  WHAT  NECESS/TV  AWOIJ'S  [book  i 

and  courage  wliioh  you  managed  to  infuse  into  my  youtli- 
ful  aspirations;  but  now  tliat  I  have  seen  you,  will  you 
permit  me  to  say  that  you  have  been  (juite  unknowingly  a 
help  to  me  again?  A  week  ago  I  was  half-disheartened  of 
my  life  because  of  the  apparent  sordidness  of  its  daily 
duti«^s,  and  now  that  I  have  seen  you  giving  your  life  to 
perform  small  and  unassuming  services  for  others,  my  own 
duties  have  appeared  more  sacred.  I  can't  tell  you  how 
mu(^h  I  admire  your  unselfish  devotion  to  these  children. 
Don't  think  me  rude  because  I  say  it.  I  often  think  we 
are  shabby  to  one  another  because,  in  the  strife,  we  do  not 
frankly  say  when  we  are  helped  by  seeing  the  brave  light 
that  some  one  else  is  making." 

They  had  stopped  by  the  gate,  for  he  was  going  one  way 
and  she  and  the  little  ones  another.  Two  strong  young 
firs,  with  snow  upon  their  shelving  branches,  formed  gate- 
posts. The  long  broad  road  was  white  as  their  footpath 
had  been. 

Sophia  answered :  "  There  is  no  virtue  in  what  I  do,  for, 
had  I  the  choice,  I  certainly  should  not  be  their  nurse- 
maid." 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "I  think  when  we  see  life  in 
its  reality,  instead  of  in  its  seeming,  we  shall  find  that  the 
greatest  deeds  have  been  done  just  because  their  doers 
believe  that  they  could  not  do  otherwise." 

"  I  don't  see  that.  If  circumstances  shut  us  up  to  doing 
certain  things,  there  is  no  virtue  in  doing  them.  There 
may  be  a  little  virtue  in  not  repining  at  our  fate,  but  not 
much." 

He  did  not  answer  for  a  minute,  but  broke  the  curl  of  a 
little  snow-drift  gently  with  his  stick.  Because  he  did  not 
answer  or  say  good-bye,  Sophia  tarried  for  a  moment  and 
then  looked  up  at  him. 

"Miss  Rexford,"  he  replied,  "the  voice  of  circumstances 
says  to  us  just  what  we  interpret  it  to  say.  It  is  in  the 
needs  must  of  a  high  nature  that  true  nobility  lies." 


Il 


CHAP,  xiii]  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  109 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

It  is  upon  the  anniversary  of  feasts  that  a  family,  if  de- 
spondent at  all,  feels  most  despondent.  So  it  fell  out  tliat 
at  Christmas-time  the  home-siekness  whieli  hitlierto  luid 
found  its  antidote  in  novelty  and  surprise  now  attacked  the 
llexford  household.  The  girls  wept  a  good  deal.  Sophia 
chid  them  for  it  sharply.  Captain  Rexford  carried  a  sol- 
emn face.  The  little  boys  were  in  worse  pickles  of  mis- 
chief than  was  ordinary.  Even  jNfrs.  Rexford  was  caught 
once  or  twice,  in  odd  corners,  hastily  wiping  away  furtive 
tears. 

This  general  despondency  seemed  to  reach  a  climax  one 
afternoon  some  days  before  the  end  of  the  year.  Without, 
the  wind  was  blowing  and  snow  was  descending;  inside, 
the  housework  dragged  monotonously.  The  only  lively 
people  in  the  house  were  the  little  children.  They  were 
playing  quite  riotously  in  an  upper  room,  under  the  care 
of  the  Canadian  girl,  Eliza;  but  their  shouts  only  elicited 
sighs  from  Mrs.  Rexford's  elder  daughters,  who  were  help- 
ing her  to  wash  the  dinner  dishes  in  the  kitchen. 

These  two  elder  daughters  had,  since  childhood,  always 
been  dressed,  so  far  as  convenient,  the  one  in  blue,  the 
other  in  red,  and  were  nicknamed  accordingly.  Their 
mother  thought  it  gave  them  individuality  which  they 
otherwise  lacked.  The  red  frock  and  the  blue  were  any- 
thing but  gay  just  now,  for  they  were  splashed  and  dusty, 
and  the  pretty  faces  above  them  showed  a  decided  disposi- 
tion to  pout  and  frown,  even  to  shed  tears. 

The  kitchen  was  a  long,  low  room.  The  unpainted  wood 
of  floor,  walls,  and  ceiling  was  darkened  scmewhat  by  time. 
Two  square,  four-paned  windows  were  as  yet  uncurtained, 
except  that  Nature,  with  the  kindness  of  a  fairy  helper, 
had  supplied  the  lack  of  deft  fingers  and  veiled  the  glass 
with  such  devices  of  the  frost  as  resembled  miniature  land- 


no  WHAT  NEC  ESS  I  TV  KNOIVS  [uooK  i 

scapes  of  distant  alp  and  nearer  minaret.  The  largo, 
square  cooking-stove  smoked  a  little.  Hetw(;en  tlie  stove 
and  the  other  door  stood  tlie  table,  which  held  tlie  dishes 
at  which  worked  the  neat,  quick  mother  and  her  rather 
untidy  and  idle  daughters. 

"Keally,  Blue  and  lied!  "  The  words  were  jerked  out  to 
conceal  a  sigh  which  had  risen  involuntarily.  "This  is 
disgraceful." 

Her  sharp  brown  eyes  fell  on  the  pile  of  dishes  she  had 
washed,  which  the  two  girls,  who  were  both  drying  them, 
failed  to  diminish  as  fast  as  she  increased  it. 

"  Our  cloths  are  wet,"  said  Blue,  looking  round  the  ceiling 
vaguely,  as  if  a  dry  dish-towel  might  bo  lying  somewhere 
on  a  rafter. 

"  I  declare "  the  mother  began,  tapping  her  foot.     But 

what  she  was  going  to  declare  was  never  known,  for  just 
then  a  knock  at  the  outer  door  diverted  tlieir  attention. 

However  commonplace  may  bo  the  moment  after  a  door 
is  opened,  the  moment  before  the  opening  is  apt  to  be  full 
of  interest,  for  one  can  never  know  but  that  some  cause  of 
delightful  excitement  is  on  the  other  side. 

It  was  Blue  who  opened  the  door.  She  did  not  at  first 
open  it  very  wide,  for  she  had  learned  by  experience  how 
much  icy  air  could  rush  in,  and  the  other  two,  watching 
from  behind,  saw  her  answering  some  salutation  with  dubi- 
ous politeness.  Then,  after  a  moment,  they  saw  her  open 
it  more  widely,  and  with  a  shy  but  hospitable  inclination 
of  tlie  pretty  head — "Will  you  walk  in?  "  said  Blue. 

The  young  man  wlio  immediately  entered  had  a  very 
smart  appearance  to  eyes  which  had  grown  accustomed  to 
the  working  garb  of  father  and  brother.  He  was,  more- 
over, handsome  to  a  degree  that  is  not  ordinary.  The 
curly  hair  from  which  he  had  lifted  his  fur  cap  was  black 
and  glossy  as  a  blackbird's  plumage,  and  the  moustache, 
which  did  iiot  cover  the  full  red  lips,  matched  the  hair, 
save  that  it  seemed  of  finer  and  softer  material.  His 
brown  eyes  had  the  glow  of  health  and  good  spirits  in 
them. 


,.) 


cnAi'.  xiiij         lyi/AT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


III 


1 


P 


"J)ear  me!"  Mrs.  Roxford  gavo  this  involuntary  ex- 
clamation of  surprise;  tlien  she  turned  inciuiringly  to  the 
visitor.  It  was  iiot  in  her  nature  to  regard  him  with  an 
unfriendly  eye;  and  as  for  l>lue  and  Red,  a  spot  of  warm 
colour  had  come  into  each  of  their  sorrowful  cheeks. 
They  were  too  well  bred  to  look  at  each  other  or  stare  at 
the  stranger,  but  there  was  a  flutter  of  pleased  interest 
about  the  muscles  of  their  rosy  lips  that  needed  no  expres- 
sive glances  to  interpret  it. 

To  be  sure,  the  next  few  minutes'  talk  rather  rubbed  the 
bloom  off  their  pleasure,  as  one  rubs  beauty  off  a  plum  by 
handling;  but  the  plum  is  still  sweet;  and  the  pleasure 
•was  still  there,  being  composed  purely  of  the  excitement 
of  meeting  a  young  human  creature  apparently  so  akin  to 
themselves,  but  different  with  that  mysterious  difference 
which  nature  sets  between  masculine  and  feminine  attri- 
butes of  mind  and  heart. 

The  young  man  was  an  American,  Any  one  experienced 
in  American  life  would  liave  observed  that  the  youth  was 
a  wanderer,  his  tricks  of  speech  and  behaviour  savouring, 
not  of  one  locality,  but  of  many.  His  accent  and  manner 
showed  it.  He  was  very  mannerly.  He  stated,  without 
loss  of  time,  that,  hearing  tliat  they  had  lately  come  to  the 
country  and  had  some  rooms  in  their  house  which  they  did 
not  use,  he  had  taken  the  liberty  of  calling  to  see  if  they 
could  let  him  a  couple  of  rooms.  He  was  anxious,  he  said, 
to  set  up  as  a  dentist,  and  had  failed,  so  far,  to  find  a 
suitable  place. 

The  disappointment  which  Blue  and  Red  experienced  in 
finding  that  the  handsome  youth  was  a  dentist  by  profession 
was  made  up  for  by  the  ecstasy  of  amusement  it  caused 
them  to  think  of  his  desiring  to  set  up  his  business  in  their 
house.  They  would  almost  have  forgiven  Fate  if  she  had 
•^withdrawn  her  latest  novelty  as  suddenly  as  she  had  sent 
him,  because  his  departure  would  have  enabled  them  to 
give  vent  to  the  mirth  the  suppression  of  which  was  at  that 
moment  a  pain  almost  as  great  as  their  girlish  natures  could 
bear. 


112 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOIVS 


[book  I 


Oh,  no,  Mrs.  Rexford  said,  they  had  no  rooms  to  let  in 
the  house. 

The  stranger  muttered  something  under  his  breath,  which 
to  an  acute  ear  might  have  sounded  like  ''Oh,  Jemima!" 
but  he  looked  so  very  disconsolate  they  could  not  help  being 
sorry  for  him  as  he  immediately  replied,  soberly  enough, 
"  1  am  sorry.  I  can't  think  of  any  place  else  to  go,  ma'am. 
I'm  real  tired,  for  I've  been  walking  this  long  time  in  the 
loose  snow.  Will  you  permit  me  to  sit  and  rest  for  a  time 
on  the  doorstep  right  outside  here  till  I  can  think  what  I 
better  do  next?  " 

l^lue  fingered  the  back  of  a  chair  nervously. 

"Take  a  chair  by  the  stove  and  rest  yourself,"  said  Mrs. 
Rexford.  She  had  a  dignity  about  her  in  dealing  witli  a 
visitor  that  was  not  often  apparent  in  other  circumstances. 
She  added,  "We  have  too  lately  been  strangers  ourselves  to 
wish  to  turn  any  one  weary  from  our  door."  Then,  in 
whispered  aside,  "Dry  your  dishes,  girls." 

The  dignity  of  bearing  with  which  she  spoke  to  him 
altered  as  she  threw  her  head  backward  to  give  this  last 
command. 

"I  tluank  you  from  ray  heart,  madam."  The  young  man 
bowed — that  is,  he  made  an  angle  of  himself  for  a  moment. 
He  moved  the  chair  to  which  she  had  motioned  him,  but  did 
not  sit  down.  "It  is  impossible  for  me  to  sit,"  said  he, 
fervently,  "while  a  lady  stands." 

The  quaintness  and  novelty  in  his  accent  made  them 
unable  to  test  his  manners  by  any  known  standard.  For  all 
they  knew,  the  most  cultured  inhabitant  of  Boston,  New 
York,  or  Washington  might  have  behaved  precisely  in  this 
way. 

"Sit  down,  mamma,"  whispered  Blue  and  Red,  with 
praiseworthy  consideration  for  their  mother's  fatigue; 
"we'll  finish  the  dishes." 

Tlie  girls  perceived  what,  perhaps,  the  stranger  had 
already  perceived,  that  if  icheir  mother  consented  to  sit 
there  was  a  chance  of  a  more  equal  conversation.     And  Mrs, 


If 


o 
n 

:n 

5t 

n 


CHAP,  xiii]         WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


"3 


Rexfcrd  sat  down.  Her  mind  had  been  unconsciously 
relieved  from  the  exercise  of  great  dignity  by  the  fact  that 
the  stranger  did  not  appear  to  notice  her  daughters,  appar- 
ently assuming  that  they  were  only  children. 

"  It  is  real  kind  of  you,  ma'am,  to  be  so  kind  to  me.  I 
don't  think  any  lady  has  seemed  so  kind  to  me  since  I  saw 
my  own  mother  last." 

He  looked  pensively  at  the  stove. 

"Your  mother  lives  in  the  United  States,  I  suppose." 

He  shook  his  head  sadly.     "In  heaven  now." 

"Ah! "  said  Mrs.  Rexford;  and  then  in  a  minute,  "I  am 
glad  to  see  that  you  feel  her  loss,  I  am  sure."  Here  she 
got  half  off  her  chair  to  poke  the  damper  of  the  stove. 
"Tliere  is  no  loss  so  great  as  the  loss  of  a  motlier." 

"  No,  and  I  ahvays  feel  her  loss  most  when  I  am  tired  and 
hungry;  because,  when  I  was  a  little  chap,  you  know,  it 
was  always  when  I  was  tired  and  hungry  that  I  went  home 
and  found  her  just  sitting  there,  quite  natural,  waiting  for 
me." 

Blue  and  Red  looked  at  the  cupboard.  They  could  not 
conceive  how  their  mother  could  refrain  from  an  oifer  of 
tea.  But,  as  it  was,  she  gave  the  young  man  a  sharp  glance 
and  questioned  him  further.  Where  had  he  come  from? 
When  had  he  arrived? 

He  had  come,  he  said,  from  the  next  station  on  the  rail- 
way. He  had  been  looking  there,  and  in  many  other  places, 
for  an  opening  for  his  work,  and  for  various  reasons  he  had 
now  decided  that  Chellaston  was  a  more  eligible  place  than 
any.  He  had  come  in  the  early  morning,  and  had  called  on 
the  doctor  and  on  Principal  Trenholme  of  the  College. 
They  had  both  agreed  that  there  was  an  opening  for  a  young 
dentist  who  would  do  his  work  well,  charge  low  prices,  and 
be  content  to  live  cheaply  till  the  village  grew  richer.  "  It's 
just  what  I  want,"  he  said.  "I  don't  seem  to  care  much 
about  making  money  if  I  can  live  honestly  among  kind- 
hearted  folks.  ^ 

"But  surely,"  cried  Mrs.  Rexford,  "neither  Dr.  Nash  nor 


114  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  i 

Principal  Trenliolme  suggested  to  you  that  Captain  llexford 
could  give  you  rooms  for "  She  was  going  to  say  "  pull- 
ing out  teeth,"  but  she  omitted  that. 

The  young  man  looked  at  her,  evidently  thinking  of 
something  else.     "  Would  you  consider  it  a  liberty,  ma'am, 

if  I "     He  stopped  diffidently,  for,  seeing  by  his  manner 

that  he  meditated  immediate  action  of  some  sort,  she  looked 
at  him  so  fiercely  that  her  glance  interrupted  him  for  a 
moment,  "  if  I  were  to  stop  the  stove  smoking?"  He  com- 
pleted the  sentence  with  great  humility,  evidently  puzzled 
to  know  how  he  had  excited  her  look  of  offence. 

She  gave  another  excited  poke  at  the  damper  herself,  and, 
having  got  her  liand  blacked,  wiped  it  on  her  coarse  grey 
apron.  The  diamond  keeper  above  the  wedding-ring  looked 
oddly  out  of  place,  but  not  more  so  than  the  small,  shapely 
hand  that  wore  it.  Seeing  that  she  had  done  the  stove  no 
good,  she  sat  back  in  her  chair  with  her  hands  crossed  upon 
her  now  dirty  apron. 

"  You  can  do  nothing  with  it.  Before  we  came  to  Canada 
no  one  told  us  that  the  kitchen  stoves  invariably  smoked. 
Had  they  done  so  I  should  have  chosen  another  country. 
However,  as  I  say  to  my  children,  we  must  make  the  best 
of  it  now.  There's  no  use  crying;  there's  no  use  lamenting. 
It  only  harasses  their  father." 

The  last  words  were  said  with  a  sharp  glance  of  reproof 
at  Blue  and  Red.  This  mother  never  forgot  the  bringing 
up  of  her  children  in  any  one's  presence,  but  she  readily 
forgot  the  presence  of  others  in  her  remarks  to  her  children. 

"  But  you  aren't  making  the  best  of  it,"  said  the  visitor. 
With  that  he  got  up,  carefully  lifted  an  iron  piece  in  the 
back  of  the  stove,  turned  a  key  thus  disclosed  in  the  pipe, 
and  so  materially  altered  the  mood  of  the  fire  that  in  a  few 
moments  it  stopped  smoking  and  crackled  nicely. 

"Did  you  ever,  mamma!"  cried  the  girls.  A  juggler's 
feat  could  not  have  entertained  them  more. 

"  If  for  a  time,  first  off,  you  had  someone  in  the  house 
who  had  lived  in  this  country,  you'd  get  on  first  class,"  said 
the  youth. 


CHAP.  XIII]  WHAT  NECESSJTV  KNOIVS^ 


IIS 


)0f 

lily 

;n. 

)r. 

the 

)e, 

w 


Lse 
lid 


"But  you  know,  my  dears,"  Mrs.  Rexford  spoke  to  her 
daughters,  forgetting  the  young  man  for  a  moment  as  before, 
"  if  I  had  not  supposed  that  Eliza  understood  tlie  stove  I 
should  have  inquired  of  Principal  Trenholme  before  now." 

";May  I  enquire  where  you  got  your  help?"  asked  the 
American.  "If  she  was  from  this  locality  she  certainly 
ought  to  have  comprehended  the  stove." 

"She  is  a  native  of  the  country." 

"As  I  say,"  he  went  on,  with  some  emphasis,  "if  she 
comes  from  hereabouts,  or  further  west,  she  ought  to  have 
understood  this  sort  of  a  stove;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  if 
she  comes  from  the  French  district,  where  they  use  only 
the  common  box  stove,  she  would  not  understand  this  kind." 

He  seemed  to  be  absorbed  entirely  in  the  stove,  and  in 
the  benefit  to  them  of  having  a  "help,"  as  he  called  her, 
who  understood  it. 

"I  think  she  comes  from  the  lumbering  country  some- 
where near  the  St.  Lawrence,"  said  Mrs.  Rexford,  examin- 
ing the  key  in  the  stove-pipe.  She  could  not  have  said  a 
moment  before  where  Eliza  had  come  from,  but  this  phrase 
seemed  to  sum  up  neatly  any  remarks  the  girl  had  let  fall 
about  her  father's  home. 

"  That  accounts  for  it!  Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  let 
me  see  her?  I  could  explain  the  mechanism  of  this  stove 
to  her  in  a  few  words;  then  you,  ma'am,  need  have  no 
further  trouble." 

She  said  she  should  be  sorry  to  trouble  him.  If  the  key 
were  all,  she  could  explain  it. 

"Pardon  me" — he  bowed  again — "it  is  not  all.  There 
are  several  inner  dampers  at  the  back  here,  which  it  is  most 
important  to  keep  free  from  soot.  If  I  might  only  explain 
it  to  the  help,  she'd  know  once  for  all.  I'd  be  real  glad  to 
do  you  that  kindness." 

Mrs.  Rexford  had  various  things  to  say.  Her  speeches 
were  usually  complex,  composed  of  a  great  variety  of  short 
sentences.  She  asked  her  daughters  if  they  thought  Eliza 
would  object  to  coming  down.     She  said  that  Eliza  was 


ii6  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  i 

invaluable,  but  she  did  not  always  like  to  do  as  she  was 
asked.  She  thought  the  girl  had  a  high  temper.  She  had 
no  wish  to  rouse  her  temper;  she  had  never  seen  anything 
of  it;  she  didn't  wish  to.  Perhaps  Eliza  would  like  to 
come  down.  Then  she  asked  her  daughters  again  if  they 
thought  Eliza  would  come  pleasantly.  Her  remarks  showed 
the  track  of  her  will  as  it  veered  round  from  refusal  to 
assent,  as  bubbles  in  muddy  water  show  the  track  of  a  diving 
insect.  Finally,  because  the  young  man  had  a  strong  will, 
and  viras  quite  decided  as  to  what  he  thought  best,  the  girls 
were  sent  to  fetch  Eliza. 

Blue  and  Red  ran  out  of  the  kitchen.  When  they  got 
into  the  next  room  they  clasped  one  another  and  shook  with 
silent  laughter.  •  As  the  door  between  the  rooms  did  not 
shut  tightly,  they  adjured  one  another,  by  dances  and  ges- 
tures, not  to  laugh  loud.  Blue  danced  round  the  table  on 
her  toes  as  a  means  of  stifling  her  laughter.  Then  they 
both  ran  to  the  foot  of  the  attic  stair  and  gripped  each 
other's  arms  very  tight  by  way  of  explaining  that  the  situ- 
ation was  desperate,  and  that  one  or  other  must  control  her 
voice  sufficiently  to  call  Eliza. 

The  dining-room  they  were  in  was  buiit  and  furnished  in 
the  same  style  as  the  kitchen,  save  that  here  the  wood  was 
painted  slate-colour  and  a  clean  rag  carpet  covered  the  floor. 
The  upper  staircase,  very  steep  and  dark,  opened  off  it  at 
the  further  end.  All  the  light  from  a  square,  small-paned 
window  fell  sideways  upon  the  faces  of  the  girls  as  they 
stretched  their  heads  towards  the  shadowed  covert  of  the 
stairs. 

And  they  could  not,  could  not,  speak,  although  they  made 
gestures  of  despair  at  each  other  and  mauled  each  other's 
poor  little  arms  sadly  in  the  endeavour  to  prove  how  hard 
they  were  trying  to  be  sober. 

If  any  one  wants  to  know  precisely  what  they  were  laugh- 
ing at,  the  only  way  would  be  to  become  for  a  time  one  of 
twv/  girls  to  whom  all  the  world  is  a  matter  of  mutual  mirth 
except  when  it  is  a  matter  of  mutual  tears. 


CHA> .  XIII]  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


117 


at 
[ed 

ey 

he 

[de 

rd 

h- 

lof 

bh 


Although  it  seemed  very  long  to  them,  it  was,  after  all, 
only  a  minute  before  Blue  called  in  trembling  tones, 
"Eliza!" 

"Eliza!"  calhid  Red. 

"Eliza!  Eliza'"  they  both  called,  and  though  there  was 
that  in  their  voices  which  made  it  perfectly  apparent  to  the 
young  man  in  the  next  room  that  they  were  laughing,  so 
grand  was  their  composure  compared  with  what  it  had  been 
before,  that  they  thought  they  had  succeeded  admirably. 

But  when  a  heavy  foot  was  heard  overhead  and  an 
answering  voice,  and  it  was  necessary  to  explain  to  Eliza 
wherefore  she  was  called,  an  audible  laugh  did  escape,  and 
then  Blue  and  Red  scampered  upstairs  and  made  the  com- 
munication there. 

It  spoke  much  for  the  strength  and  calibre  of  character 
of  the  girl  who  had  so  lately  come  into  this  family  that  a 
few  minutes  later,  when  the  three  girls  entered  the  kitchen, 
it  was  Eliza  who  walked  first,  with  a  bearing  equal  to  that 
of  the  other  two  and  a  dignity  far  greater. 

The  young  man,  wlio  had  been  fidgeting  with  the  stove, 
looked  up  gravely  to  see  them  enter,  as  if  anxious  to  give 
his  lesson;  but  had  any  one  looked  closely  it  would  have 
been  seen  that  his  acute  gaze  covered  the  foremost  figure 
with  an  intensity  of  observation  that  was  hardly  called  for 
if  he  took  no  other  interest  in  her  than  as  a  transient  pupil 
in  the  matter  of  stove  dampers. 

Perhaps  any  one  might  have  looked  with  interest  at  her. 
She  was  evidently  young,  but  there  was  that  in  her  face  that 
put  years,  or  at  least  experience  of  years,  between  her  and 
the  pretty  young  things  that  followed  her.  She  was  largely 
made,  and,  carrying  a  dimpled  child  of  two  years  upon  her 
shoulder,  she  walked  erect,  as  ?  luthern  women  walk  with 
their  burdens  on  their  heads.  It  detracted  little  that  her 
gown  was  of  the  coarsest,  and  that  her  abundant  red  hair 
was  tossed  by  the  child's  restless  hands.  Eliza,  as  she 
entered  the  kitchen,  was,  if  not  a  beautiful  girl,  a  girl  on 
the  eve  of  splendid  womanhood}  and  the  young  man,  per- 


ii8  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  I 

ceiving  this,  almost  faltered  in  his  gaze,  perhaps  also  in 
the  purpose  he  was  pursuing.  The  words  of  the  lesson  he 
had  ready  seemed  to  be  forgotten,  although  his  outward 
composure  did  not  fail  him. 

Eliza  came  near,  the  child  upon  her  shoulder,  looked  at 
him  and  waited. 

"Eliza  will  hear  what  you  have  to  say,"  said  Mrs.  Rex- 
ford. 

"Oh,"  said  he,  and  then,  whatever  had  been  the  cause  of 
his  momentary  pause,  he  turned  it  off  with  the  plea  tliat  he 
had  not  supposed  this  to  be  "  the — young  lady  who — wished 
to  learn  about  the  stove." 

She  received  what  he  had  to  say  without  much  apprecia- 
tion, remarking  that,  with  the  exception  of  the  one  key,  she 
had  known  it  before. 

As  for  him,  he  took  up  his  cap  to  go.  "  Good-day,  ma'am, " 
he  said;  "I'm  obliged  for  your  hospitality.  Ladies,  I  beg 
leave  now  to  retire."  He  made  his  bow  elaborately,  first  to 
Mrs.  Rexford,  then  in  the  direction  of  the  girls. 

"My  card,  ma'am,"  he  said,  presenting  Mrs.  Rexford 
with  the  thing  he  mentioned. 

Then  he  went  out. 

On  the  card  was  printed,  "Cyril  P.  Harkness,  M.D.S." 

It  was  growing  so  dark  that  Mrs.  Rexford  had  to  go  to 
the  window  to  read  it.  As  she  did  so,  the  young  man's 
shadow  passed  below  the  frosted  pane  as  he  made  his  way 
between  snow-heaps  to  the  main  road. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


Next  day  Eliza  went  out  with  two  of  the  little  children.  | 

It  was  in  the  early  afternoon,  and  the  sun  shone  brightly. 
Eliza  had  an  errand  down  the  street,  but  every  one  knows 
that  one  does  not  progress  very  fast  on  an  errand  with  a 
toddler  of  two  years  at  one's  side.     Eliza  sauntered,  giving 


CHAP.  XIV]  kVHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


"9 


)> 


to 


r 

|\vs 
a 


soothing  answers  to  the  little  one's  treble  remarks,  and  only 
occasionally  exerting  herself  to  keep  the  liveliness  of  her 
older  charge  in  check.  Eliza  liked  the  children  and  the 
sunshine  and  the  road.  Her  saunter  was  not  an  undignified 
one,  nor  did  she  neglect  her  duty  in  any  particular ;  but  all 
the  while  there  was  an  under-current  of  greater  activity  in 
her  mind,  and  the  under-thoughts  were  occupied  wholly  and 
entirely  with  lierself  and  her  own  interests. 

After  walking  in  the  open  road  for  a  little  while  she  came 
under  tlie  great  elm  trees  that  held  their  leafless  limbs 
in  wide  arch  over  the  village  street.  Here  a  footpath  was 
shovelled  in  the  snow,  on  either  side  of  the  sleigh  road. 
The  sun  was  throwing  down  the  graceful  lines  of  elm  twigs 
on  path  and  snowdrift.  The  snow  lawns  in  front  of  the 
village  houses  were  pure  and  bright;  little  children  played 
in  them  with  tiny  sledge  and  snow  spade,  often  under  the 
watchful  eye  of  a  mother  who  sat  sewing  behind  the  win- 
dow pane.  Now  and  then  sleighs  passed  on  the  central  road 
with  a  cheerful  jingle  of  bells. 

When  Eliza,  with  the  children,  came  to  the  centre  of  the 
village,  it  became  necessary  to  cross  the  street.  She  was 
bound  for  the  largest  shop,  that  stood  under  part  of  the 
great  hotel,  and  just  here,  opposite  the  hotel,  quite  a  num- 
ber of  sleighs  were  passing.  Eliza  picked  up  the  little  one 
in  her  arms,  and,  taking  the  other  child  by  the  hand, 
essayed  to  cross.  But  one  reckons  without  one's  host  in 
counting  surely  on  the  actions  of  children.  Sturdy  five- 
year-old  baulked  like  a  little  horse,  and  would  not  come. 
Eliza  coaxed  in  vain.  A  long  line  of  draught-horses, 
dragging  blue  box-sleighs,  came  slowly  up  the  road,  each 
jingling  a  heavy  belt  of  bells.  Five-year-old  was  frightened 
and  would  not  come.  Eliza,  without  irritation,  but  at  the 
same  time  without  hesitation,  took  it  by  the  waist  under 
her  left  arm  and  started  again.  She  got  half  across  before 
the  child  seemed  thoroughly  to  realise  what  was  occurring, 
and  then,  with  head  and  arms  in  front  and  little  gaitered 
legs  behind,  it  began  to  struggle  so  violently  tl  tt  the  young 


120  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  i 

woman,  strong  and  composed  as  she  was,  was  brought  for 
a  minute  to  a  standstill. 

Two  men  were  watching  her  from  the  smoking-room  of 
the  hotel ;  the  one  an  elderly  man,  the  owner  of  the  house, 
had  his  attention  arrested  by  the  calm  force  of  character 
Eliza  was  displaying;  the  other,  the  young  American  den- 
tist, saw  in  the  incident  an  excuse  for  interference,  and  he 
rushed  out  now  to  the  rescue,  and  gallantly  carried  the 
little  naughty  one  safely  to  the  right  side  of  the  road.  ^ 

Eliza,  recognising  him,  saw  that  he  was  looking  at  her  | 

with  the  pleasant  air  of  an  old  acquaintance — one,  in  fact, 
who  knew  her  so  well  that  any  formal  greeting  was  unnec- 
essary— not  that  she  knew  anything  about  greetings,  or 
what  might  or  might  not  be  expected,  but  she  had  an  indis- 
tinct sense  that  he  was  surprisingly  friendly. 

"  How's  the  stove  going?  "  then  he  asked.  He  escorted 
her  into  the  shop,  and  superintended  her  little  purchases 
in  a  good-natured,  elder-brother  fashion.  That  done,  he 
carried  the  elder  child  across  the  road  again,  and  Eliza 
went  upon  her  way  back  down  the  long  narrow  pavement, 
with  the  children  at  her  side. 

She  had  shown  nothing  to  the  young  man  but  composed 
appreciation  of  his  conduct.  She  was,  iiowever,  conscious 
that  he  would  not  have  been  so  kind  to  any  girl  he  hap- 
pened to  meet.  "He  admires  me,"  thought  Eliza  to  her- 
self. For  all  that,  she  was  not  satisfied  with  the  encounter. 
She  felt  that  she  had  not  played  her  part  well ;  she  had 
been  too — had  been  too — she  did  not  know  what.  She 
thought  if  she  had  held  her  head  higher  and  shown  her- 
self less  thankful — yes,  there  had  been  something  amiss  in 
her  behaviour  that  ought  to  be  corrected.  She  could  not 
define  what  she  had  done,  or  ought  to  have  done.  How 
could  she?  An  encounter  of  this  sort  was  as  new  to  her  as 
Mrs.  Rexford's  sewing  machine,  which  she  had  not  yet 
been  allowed  to  touch.  Yet  had  she  been  shut  up  alone 
with  the  machine,  as  she  was  now  shut  up  to  revise  her 
own  conduct  within  herself,  she  would,  by  sheer  force  of 


f 


CHAP.  XIV]  JVHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


121 


t 

I 


determined  intelligence,  have  mastered  its  intricacy  to  a 
large  degree  without  asking  aid.  And  o  with  this  strong 
idea  that  she  must  learn  how  to  act  differently  to  this 
young  man;  dim,  indeed,  as  was  her  idea  of  what  was  lack- 
ing, or  what  was  to  be  gained,  she  strove  with  it  in  no  fear 
of  failure. 

She  raised  her  head  as  she  walked,  and  recast  the  inter- 
view just  past  in  another  form  more  suited  to  her  vague 
ideal,  and  again  in  another.  She  had  a  sense  of  power 
within  her,  that  sense  which  powerful  natures  have,  with- 
out in  the  least  knowing  in  what  direction  the  power  may 
go  forth,  or  when  they  will  be  as  powerless  as  Samson 
shaven.  She  only  felt  the  power  and  its  accompanying 
impulses;  she  supposed  that  in  all  ways,  at  all  times,  it 
was  hers  to  use. 

In  a  day  or  two  Cyril  Harkness  met  Eliza  in  the  street 
again,  and  took  occasion  to  speak  to  her.  This  time  she 
was  much  less  obliging  in  her  manner.  She  threw  a  trifle 
of  indifference  into  her  air,  looking  in  front  of  her  instead 
of  at  him,  and  made  as  if  she  wished  to  proceed.  Had 
this  interview  terminated  as  easily  as  the  other,  she  would 
have  been  able  to  look  back  upon  it  with  complete  satisfac- 
tion, as  having  been  carried  on,  on  her  part,  according  to 
her  best  knowledge  of  befitting  dignity ;  but,  unfortunately 
for  her,  the  young  American  was  of  an  outspoken  dis- 
position, and  utterly  untrammelled  by  those  instincts  of 
conventionality  which  Eliza  had,  not  by  training,  but  by 
inheritance  from  he**  law-abiding  and  custom-loving  Scotch 
ancestry. 

"  Say,"  said  he,  "are  you  mad  at  anything?  " 

He  gained  at  least  this  much,  that  she  instantly  stared 
at  him. 

"If  you  aren't  angry  with  me,  why  should  you  act 
crusty?  "  he  urged.  "  You  aren't  half  as  pleasant  as  t'other 
day." 

Eliza  had  not  prepared  herself  for  this  free  speaking, 
and  her  mind  was  one  that  moved  slowly. 


122 


WHAT  NEC  ESS /TV  KNOWS 


[book  I 


"I  must  take  the  children  home,"  she  said.  "I'm  not 
angry.     I  wasn't  pleasant  tliat  I  know  of." 

"You  ought  to  be  pleasant,  any  way;  for  I'm  your  best 
friend. " 

Eliza  was  not  witty,  and  she  really  could  not  think  of 
any  answer  to  this  astonishing  assertion.  Again  she  looked 
at  him  in  simple  surprise. 

"Well,  yes,  I  am;  although  you  don't  know  it.  There 
isn't  a  man  round  Turriffs  who  has  tlie  least  idea  in  the 
world  where  you  are,  for  your  friends  left  you  asleep  when 
they  came  out  wil  i  the  old  gentleman;  when  I  twigged 
how  you  got  off  1  never  told  a  word.  Your  father  had 
been  seen  "  (here  he  winked)  "  near  Dalhousie,  wandering 
round!  But  they  won't  find  you  unless  I  tell  them,  and  I 
won't." 

"Won't  find  me  unless  you  tell  them,"  repeated  Eliza 
slowly,  the  utmost  astonishment  in  her  tone.     "  Wlio?  " 

So  vague  and  great  was  the  wonder  in  her  voice  that  he 
brought  his  eyes  to  interrogate  hers  in  sudden  surprise. 
He  saw  only  simple  and  strong  interest  on  the  face  of  a 
simple  and  strong  country  girl.  He  had  expected  a  differ- 
ent response  and  a  different  expression. 

He  put  his  tongue  in  the  side  of  his  cheek  with  the  air 
of  an  uncontrolled  boy  who  has  played  a  trump-card  in 
vain.     "Say,"  said  he,  "didn't  you,  though?" 

"Didn't  I?"  said  Eliza,  and  after  a  minute  she  said, 
"What?" 

The  young  man  looked  at  her  and  smiled.  His  smile 
suggested  a  cunning  recognition  that  she  was  deceiving 
him  by  pretended  dulness. 

At  this  Eliza  looked  excessively  offended,  and,  with  her 
head  aloft,  began  to  push  on  the  little  sleigh  with  the  baby 
in  it. 

"Beg  your  pardon,  ma'am,"  he  said  with  sudden  humil- 
ity, but  with  a  certain  lingering  in  his  voice  as  if  he  could 
not  relinquish  his  former  idea  as  suddenly  as  he  wished  to 
appear  to  do.     "I  see  I've  made  a  mistake." 


■•??- 


CHAP,  xiv]  IVHAT  NECESS/TV  KNOWS 


123 


Eliza  hesitated  in  lier  onward  movement.  "But  what 
was  it  you  were  going  to  tell  about  me?"  She  spoke  as  if 
she  had  merely  then  remembered  how  the  conversation 
began. 

His  recantation  was  now  complete.  "  Nothing;  oh,  noth- 
ing.    T'was  just  my  fun,  miss." 

She  surveyed  him  witli  earnest  disapprobation. 

"You're  not  a  very  sensible  young  man,  I'm  afraid." 

She  said  this  severely,  and  then,  with  great  dignity,  she 
went  home. 

The  young  man  lingered  for  a  minute  or  two  by  the  snow 
piles  in  front  of  the  hotel  where  they  had  been  standing. 
Then  he  went  into  the  hotel  with  the  uncertain  step  that 
betokens  an  undecided  mind.  When  he  got  to  the  window 
he  looked  out  at  her  retreating  figure — a  white  street  with 
this  grey-clad  healthy-looking  girl  walking  down  it,  and 
the  little  red  box-sleigh  with  the  baby  in  it  which  she 
pushed  before  her.  He  was  quite  alone,  and  he  gave  vent 
to  an  emphatic  half-whisper  to  himself. 

"  If  she  did  it,  she's  a  magnificent  deep  one — a  magnifi- 
cent deep  one."  There  was  profound  admiration  in  his 
voice. 

That  evening  it  was  Mrs.  Kexford  who  happened  to  wipe 
the  tea-things  while  Eliza  washed  them. 

"  That  young  Mr.  Harkness,  the  dentist — "  began  Eliza. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Rexford,  alert. 

"  Twice  when  I've  been  to  the  shop  he's  tried  to  make 
himself  pleasant  to  me  and  the  children.  I  don't  suppose 
he  means  any  harm,  but  he's  not  a  sensible  young  man,  I 
think." 

"You're  a  very  sensible  girl,  Eliza,"  said  Mrs.  Rexford, 
with  quick  vigour  and  without  any  sense  of  contrast. 

"It  doesn't  matter  to  me,"  went  on  Eliza,  "for  I  don't 
answer  him  more  than  I  can  help;  but  if  he  was  to  talk  to 
the  other  girls  when  they  go  out,  I  suppose  they'd  know 
not  to  notice  him  too  much." 

Mrs.  Rexford  was  one  of  those  people  who  get  accustomed 


124 


WHAT  NECESSfTY  KNOWS 


[book  I 


to  circumstances  in  the  time  that  it  takos  otlicrs  to  begin 
to  wonder  at  them.  Slie  often  took  for  granted  now  that 
Eliza  wouhl  consider  her  daugliters  as  entirely  on  a  level 
with  herself,  but  less  sensible.  It  miglit  not  be  wholly 
agreeable;  neither,  to  Mrs.  Rexford's  mind,  was  it  .agreea- 
ble to  have  the  earth  covered  with  snow  for  four  montlis  of 
the  year;  but  she  had  ceased  wondering  at  that  plienomenon 
a  minute  after  she  had  first  read  of  it  in  a  book  of  travels, 
and  all  the  ever-fresh  marvel  of  its  glossy  brightness  had 
failed  to  bring  fresh  comment  to  her  lips,  or  to  make  her 
mind  more  familiar  with  the  idea.  In  the  same  way,  she 
had  accepted  Eliza's  position  and  character  as  a  complex  fact 
which,  like  the  winter,  liad  advantages  and  disadvantages. 
Mrs.  Kexford  put  up  witli  tlie  latter,  was  thankful  for  the 
former,  and  wasted  no  more  thoughts  on  the  matter. 

Eliza's  last  remark,  however,  was  a  subject  for  considera- 
tion, and  with  Mrs.  liexford  consideration  was  speech. 

"  Dear  me !  "  she  said.  "  Well !  "  Then  she  took  a  few 
paces  backward,  dish-cloth  and  dish  still  in  hand,  till  she 
brought  herself  opposite  the  next  room  door.  The  long 
kitchen  was  rather  dark,  as  the  plates  were  being  washed 
by  the  light  of  one  candle,  but  in  the  next  room  Captain 
liexford  and  his  family  were  gathered  round  a  table  upon 
which  stood  lamps  giving  plenty  of  light. 

The  mother  addressed  the  family  in  general.  "The 
dentist,"  said  she,  "talks  to  Eliza  when  she  goes  to  the 
shop.  Blue  and  Red !  if  he  should  speak  to  you,  you  must 
show  the  same  sense  Eliza  did,  and  take  not  the  slightest 
notice." 

Sophia  had  asked  what  the  dentist  said  to  Eliza,  and 
Mrs.  Rexford  had  reproved  the  girls  for  laughing,  while  the 
head  of  the  family  prepared  himself  to  answer  in  his 
kindly,  leisurely,  and  important  way. 

"To  'take  not  the  slightest  notice  '  is,  perhaps,  requiring 
more  of  such  young  heads  than  might  be  possible.  It 
would  be  difficult  even  for  me  to  take  no  notice  whatever 
of  a  young  man  who  accosted  me  in  a  place  like  this. 


CHAP.  XIV]  WHAT  NECESS/TV  KNOWS 


135 


Severity,  mild  displeasure,  or  a  determinatiou  not  to  speak, 
might  be  shown." 

"If  necessary,"  said  Sophia;  "but " 

"If  necessary,"  the  father  corrected  himself,  emphasizing 
his  words  with  a  gentle  tap  of  his  fingers  on  the  table.  "I 
only  mean  if  necessary,  of  course." 

"People  have  such  easy-going  ways  here,"  said  Sophia. 
"Don't  you  think,  mamma,  a  little  ordinary  discretion  on 
the  girls'  part  would  be  enough?  lUue  and  Red  have  too 
much  sense,  I  suppose,  to  treat  him  as  an  equal ;  but  they 
can  be  polite." 

Eliza,  overhearing  this,  decided  that  she  would  never 
treat  the  young  American  as  an  equal,  although  she  had  no 
idea  why  she  should  not. 

Let  it  not  be  supposed  that  Mrs.  Rexford  had  idled  over 
the  dish  she  was  wiping.  The  conversation  was,  in  fact, 
carried  on  between  the  family  in  the  bright  sitting-room 
and  an  intermittent  appearance  of  Mrs.  Rexford  at  the 
door  of  the  shady  kitchen.  Twice  she  had  disappeared 
towards  Eliza's  table  to  get  a  fresh  plate  and  come  again, 
rubbing  it. 

"  Ah,  girls,"  she  now  cried,  "  Sophia  is  always  giving  you 
credit  for  more  sense  than  I'm  afraid  you  possess.  No 
giggling,  now,  if  this  young  fellow  should  happen  to  say 
'good  morning.'  Just  'good  morning'  in  return,  and  pass 
on — nothing  more." 

The  father's  leisurely  speech  again  broke  in  and  hushed 
the  little  babble. 

"  Certainly,  my  dear  daughters,  under  such  circumstances 
as  your  mother  suggests;  to  look  down  modestly,  and 
answer  the  young  man's  salutation  with  a  little  primness, 
and  not  to  hesitate  in  your  walk — that,  I  should  think,  is 
perhaps  the  course  of  conduct  your  mother  means  to  indi- 
cate." 

"It  strikes  me,"  said  Harold,  the  eldest  son,  "a  good 
deal  depends  on  what  he  did  say  to  Eliza.     Eliza !  " 

This  last  was  a  shout,  and  the  girl  responded  to  it,  so 


126 


WHAT  JVECESS/TV  KNOWS 


[hook  I 


that  there  were  now  two  figures  at  the  door,  Mrs.  Kexford 
drying  the  dish,  and  Eliza  standing  quite  quietly  and  at 
ease. 

"Yes,  my  son,"  responded  Captain  Rexford,  "it  does 
depend  a  good  deal  on  what  he  did  say  to  Eliza.  Now, 
Eliza  "  (this  was  the  beginning  of  a  judicial  inquiry),  "  I 
understand  from  Mrs.  llexford  that " 

"I've  heard  all  that  you  have  said,"  said  Eliza.  "I've 
been  just  here." 

"  Ah !  Then  without  any  preface  "  (he  gave  a  wave  of 
his  hand,  as  if  putting  aside  the  preface),  "I  might  just 
ask  you,  Eliza,  what  this  young — Ilarkness,  I  believe  his 
name  is — what " 

"He's  just  too  chatty,  that's  all  that's  the  matter  with 
him,"  said  Eliza.  "He  took  off  his  hat  and  talked,  and 
he'd  have  been  talking  yet  if  I  hadn't  come  away.  There 
was  no  sense  in  what  he  said,  good  or  bad." 

The  children  were  at  last  allowed  to  go  on  Avith  their 
lessons. 

When  the  dish-washing  was  finished  and  Mrs.  Rexford 
came  into  the  sitting-room,  Sophia  took  the  lamp  by  the 
light  of  which  she  had  been  doing  the  family  darning  into 
the  kitchen,  and  she  and  Harold  established  themselves 
there.  Harold,  a  quiet  fellow  about  nineteen,  was  more 
like  his  half-sister  than  any  other  member  of  the  family, 
and  there  was  no  need  that  either  s'lOuld  explain  to  the 
other  why  they  were  glad  to  leave  the  nervous  briskness  of 
the  more  occuf  ied  room.  It  was  their  hab't  to  spend  their 
evenings  here,  and  Sophia  arranged  that  Eliza  should  bring 
her  own  sewing  and  work  at  it  under  her  direction.  Harold 
very  often  read  aloud  to  them.  It  was  astonishing  how 
quickly,  not  imperceptibly,  but  determinedly,  the  Canadian 
girl  took  on  the  habits  and  manners  of  the  lady  beside  her; 
not  thereby  producing  a  poor  imitation,  for  Eliza  was  not 
imitative,  but  by  erireful  study  reproducing  in  herself  much 
of  Sophia's  refineirent. 


CHAP.  XV] 


WHAT  NECESaiTY  KNOWS 


127 


CHAPTEE  XV. 


That  evening  Blue  and  Red  were  sent  to  bed  rather  in 
disgrace,  because  they  had  professed  themselves  too  sleepy 
to  hnish  sewing  a  seam  their  mother  had  given  them  to  do. 

Very  sleepy,  very  glad  to  fold  up  their  work,  they  made 
their  way,  through  the  cold  empty  room  which  was  intended 
to  be  the  drawing-room  when  it  was  furnished,  to  one  of  the 
several  bedrooms  that  opened  off  it.  There  was  only  one 
object  in  the  empty  room  which  they  passed  through,  and 
that  was  the  big  family  carriage,  for  which  no  possible  use 
could  be  found  during  the  long  winter,  and  for  the  storing 
of  which  no  outside  place  was  considered  good  enough.  It 
stood  wheelless  in  a  corner,  with  a  large  grey  cloth  over  it, 
and"^  the  girls  passing  it  with  their  one  flickering  candle 
looked  at  it  a  little  askance.  They  had  the  feeling  that 
something  might  be  within  or  behind  it  which  would 
bounce  out  at  them. 

Once,  however,  ^vithin  their  small  whitewashed  bedroom, 
they  felt  quite  safe.  Their  spirits  rose  a  little  when  they 
shut  the  door,  for  now  there  was  no  exacting  third  person 
to  expect  anything  but  what  they  chose  to  give.  Theirs 
was  that  complete  happiness  of  two  persons  when  it  has 
been  long  proved  that  neither  ever  does  anything  which 
the  other  does  not  like,  and  neither  ever  wants  from  the 
other  what  is  not  naturally  given. 

They  were  still  sleepy  when  they  unbuttoned  each  other's 
frocks,  but  when  they  had  come  to  the  next  stage  of  shak- 
ing out  their  curly  hair  they  began  to  make  remarks  which 
tended  to  dispel  their  drowsiness. 

Said  Blue,  "Is  it  very  dreadful  to  be  a  dentist? " 

Said  Red,  "  Yes ;  horrid.  You  have  to  put  your  fingers 
in  people's  mouths,  you  know." 

"  But  doctors  have  to  cut  off  legs,  and  doctors  are  quite " 

There  is  another  advantage  in  perfect  union  of  twin  souls, 


128 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  I 


and  that  is,  that  it  is  never  necessary  to  finish  a  remark  the 
end  of  which  does  not  immediately  find  expression  on  the 
tip  of  the  tongue,  for  the  other  always  knows  what  is  going 
to  be  said. 

"  Yes,  I  know  doctors  are, "  replied  Red ;  "  still,  you  know, 
Principal  Trenholme  said  Mr.  Harkness  is  not  a  well-bred 
American." 

"His  first  name  is  Cyril.  I  saw  it  on  the  card,"  replied 
Blue,  quitting  the  question  of  social  position. 

'lo's  a  lovely  name,"  said  Red,  earnestly. 

"And  I'll  tell  you,"  said  Blue,  turning  round  with  sud- 
den earnestness  and  emphasis,  "  I  think  he's  the  handsomest 
young  man  I  ever  saiv." 

The  rather  odd  plan  Mrs.  Rexford  had  hit  on  for  lessen- 
ing the  likeness  betwee.i  these  two,  clothing  each  habitually 
in  a  distinctive  colour,  had  not  been  carried  into  her  choice 
of  material  for  their  dressing-gowns.  These  garments  were 
white;  and,  as  a  stern  mood  of  utility  had  guided  their 
mother's  shears,  they  were  short  and  almost  shapeless.  The 
curly  hair  which  was  being  brushed  over  them  had  stopped 
its  growth,  as  curly  hair  often  does,  at  the  shoulders.  In 
the  small  whitewashed  room  the  two  girls  looked  as  much 
like  choristers  in  surplices  as  anything  might  look,  and 
their  sweet  oval  faces  had  that  perfect  freshness  of  youth 
which  is  strangely  akin  to  the  look  of  holiness,  in  spite  of 
the  absolute  frivolity  of  conduct  which  so  often  characterises 
young  companionship. 

When  Blue  made  her  earnest  little  assertion,  she  also 
made  an  earnest  little  dab  at  the  air  with  her  brush  to 
emphasise  it;  and  Red,  letting  her  brush  linger  on  her  curly 
mop,  replied  with  equal  emphasis  and  the  same  earnest,  open 
eyes,  "Oh,  so  do  I." 

This  decided,  there  was  quiet  for  a  minute,  only  the  soft 
sound  of  brushing.  Then  Red  began  that  pretty  little 
twittering  which  bore  to  their  laughter  when  in  full  force 
the  same  relation  that  the  first  faint  chit,  chit,  chit  of  a 
bird  bears  to  its  full  song. 


«     s 


I 


CHAP.  XV] 


IV//AT  NECESSITY  KNOIVS 


129 


10 


"  Weren't  papa  and  mamma  funny  when  they  talked  about 
what  we  should  do  if  he  spoke  to  us?" 

She  did  not  finish  her  sentence  before  merriment  made  it 
difficult  for  her  to  pronounce  the  words ;  and  as  for  Blue, 
she  was  obliged  to  throw  herself  on  the  side  of  the  bed. 

Then  again  Blue  sat  up. 

"You're  to  look  down  as  you  pass  him,  Eed — like  this, 
look!" 

"  That  isn't  right."  Eed  said  this  with  a  little  shriek  of 
delight.  "You're  smiling  all  over  your  face — that  won't 
do." 

"Because  I  caiiH  keep  my  face  straight.  Oh,  Eed,  what 
shall  we  do?  I  know  that  if  we  ever  see  him  after  this  we 
shall  simply  die." 

"  Oh,  yes  " — with  tone  of  full  conviction — "  I  know  we 
shall." 

"But  we  shall  meet  him." 

They  became  almost  serious  for  some  moments  at  the 
thought  of  the  inevitableness  of  the  meeting  and  the  hope- 
lessness of  conducting  themselves  with  any  propriety. 

"And  w>  ^t  will  he  think?"  continued  Blue,  in. sympa- 
thetic distress ;  " he  will  certainly  think  we  are  laughing  at 
him,  for  he  will  never  imagine  how  much  we  have  been 
amused." 

Eed,  however,  began  to  brush  her  hair  again.  "Blue," 
said  she,  "did  you  ever  try  to  see  how  you  looked  in  the 
glass  when  your  eyes  were  cast  down?  You  can't,  you 
know." 

Blue  immediately  tried,  and  admitted  the  difficulty. 

"I  wish  I  could,"  said  Eed,  "for  then  I  should  know 
how  I  should  look  when  he  had  spoken  to  me  and  I  was 
passing  him." 

"Well,  do  it,  and  I'll  tell  you." 

"  Then  you  stand  there,  and  I'll  come  along  past  and  look 
down  just  when  I  meet  you." 

Eed  made  the  experiment  rather  seriously,  but  Blue  cried 
out : 


130  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOIVS  [book  i 

"  Oh,  you  looked  at  me  out  of  the  corner  of  your  eyQ  just 
as  you  were  looking  down — that'll  never  do." 

"I  didn't  mean  to.     Now  look!     I'm  doing  it  again." 

The  one  white-gowned  figure  stood  with  its  back  to  the 
bed  while  the  other  through  its  little  acting  down  the 
middle  of  the  room. 

"  That's  better  " — critically. 

"Well,"  pursued  Red,  with  interest,  "how  does  it  look?" 

"  Rather  nice.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he  fell  in  love  with 
you." 

This  was  a  sudden  and  extraordinary  audacity  of  thought. 

"  Oh,  Blue !  " — in  shocked  tones — "  how  could  you  think 
of  such  a  thing!  "  She  reproached  her  sister  as  herself.  It 
was  actually  the  first  time  such  a  theme  had  been  broached 
even  in  their  private  converse. 

"Well,"  said  Blue,  stoutly,  "he  might,  you  know.  Such 
things  happen." 

"I  don't  think  it's  quite  nice  to  think  of  it,"  said  Red, 
meditatively. 

"It  isn't  nice,"  said  Blue,  agreeing  perfectly,  but  unwill- 
ing to  recant;  "still,  it  may  be  our  duty  to  think  of  it. 
Sophia  said  once  that  a  woman  was  always  more  or  less 
responsible  if  a  man  fell  in  love  with  her." 

"  Did  Sophia  say  that?  "  Weighty  worlds  of  responsibility 
seemed  to  be  settling  on  little  Red's  shoulders. 

"Yes;  she  was  talking  to  mamma  about  something.  So, 
as  it's  quite  possible  he  might  fall  in  love  with  us,  we  ought 
to  consider  the  matter." 

"You  don't  think  he's  falling  in  love  with  Eliza,  do 
you?" 

"Oh  no! " — promptly — "but  then  Eliza  isn't  like  us." 

Red  looked  at  her  pretty  face  in  the  glass  as  she  con- 
tinued to  smooth  out  the  brown  curls.  She  thought  of 
Eliza's  tall  figure,  immobile  white  face,  and  crown  of  red 
hair. 

"No,"  she  said,  meditatively;  "but,  Blue" — this  quitQ 
seriously — "I  hope  he  won't  fall  in  love  with  us." 


CHAP.  XV] 


WHAT  NECESSirV  KNOWS 


131 


I,  do 


I" 


3on- 

of 

red 


"Oh,  so  do  I;  for  it  would  make  him  feel  so  miserable. 
But  I  think,  Red,  when  you  looked  down  you  did  not  look 
prim  enough — you  know  papa  said  '  prim. '  Now,  you  stand, 
and  I'll  do  it." 

So  Blue  now  passed  down  the  little  narrow  room,  but  when 
she  came  to  the  critical  spot,  the  supposed  meeting  ground, 
her  desire  to  laugh  conflicting  with  the  effort  to  pull  a  long 
face,  caused  such  a  wry  contortion  of  her  plump  visage  that 
seriousness  deserted  them  once  more,  and  they  bubbled  over 
in  mirth  that  would  have  been  boisterous  had  it  not  been 
prudently  muffled  in  the  pillows. 

After  that  they  said  their  prayers.  But  when  they  had 
taken  off  the  clumsy  dressing-gowns  and  got  into  the  feather- 
bed under  the  big  patchwork  quilt,  like  two  little  white 
rabbits  nestling  into  one  another,  they  reverted  once  more 
to  their  father's  instructions  for  meeting  the  dentist,  and 
giggled  themselves  to  sleep. 

Another  pair  of  talkers,  also  with  some  common  attri- 
butes of  character,  but  with  less  knowledge  of  each  other, 
were  astir  after  these  sisters  had  fallen  asleep. 

Most  of  the  rooms  in  the  house  were  on  the  ground-floor, 
but  there  were  two  attic  bedrooms  opening  off  a  very  large 
room  in  the  roof  which  the  former  occupant  had  used  as  a 
granary.  One  of  these  Sophia  occupied  with  a  child;  the 
other  had  been  given  to  Eliza.  That  night,  when  Sophia 
was  composing  herself  to  sleep,  she  heard  Eliza  weeping. 
So  smothered  were  the  sounds  of  sorrow  that  she  could 
hardly  hear  them.  She  lifted  her  head,  listened,  then, 
putting  a  long  fur  cloak  about  her,  went  into  the  next  room. 

No  sooner  was  her  hand  on  the  latch  of  Eliza's  door  than 
all  sound  ceased.  She  stood  for  a  minute  in  the  large,  dark 
granary.  The  draught  in  it  was  almost  great  enough  to  be 
called  a  breeze,  and  it  whispered  in  the  eaves  which  the 
sloping  rafters  made  round  the  edges  of  the  floor  as  a  wind 
might  sigh  in  some  rocky  cave.  Sophia  opened  the  door  and 
went  in. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Eliza?" 


I 


132  PVHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  i 

Even  in  the  almost  darkness  she  could  see  that  the  girl's 
movement  was  an  involuntary  feigning  of  surprise. 

"Nothing." 

"  I  used  to  hear  you  crying  when  we  first  came,  Eliza,  and 
now  you  have  begun  it  again.     Tell  me  what  troubles  you.  m 

Why  do  you  pretend  that  nothing  is  the  matter?"  ™ 

The  cold  glimmer  of  the  light  of  night  reflected  on  snow 
came  in  at  the  diamond-shaped  window,  and  the  little  white 
bed  was  just  shadowed  forth  to  Sophia's  sight.  The  girl  in 
it  might  have  been  asleep,  she  remained  so  quiet. 

"  Are  you  thinking  about  your  father?  " 

"I  don't  know." 

"Do  you  dislike  being  here?" 

"No;  but " 

"  But  what?  What  is  troubling  you,  Eliza?  You're  not 
a  girl  to  cry  for  nothing.  Since  you  came  to  us  I  have  seen 
that  you  are  a  straightforward,  good  girl;  and  you  have 
plenty  of  sense,  too.  Come,  tell  me  how  it  is  you  cry  like 
this?" 

Eliza  sat  up.  "You  won't  tell  them  downstairs?"  she 
said  slowly. 

"Y^'ou  may  trust  me  not  to  repeat  anything  that  is  not 
necessary." 

Eliza  moved  nervously,  and  her  movements  suggested 
hopelessness  of  trouble  and  difficulty  of  speech.  Sophia 
pitied  her. 

"  I  don't  know,  she  said  restlessly,  stretching  out  aimless 
hands  into  the  darkness,  "I  don't  know  why  I  cry.  Miss 
Sophia.  It  isn't  for  one  thing  more  than  another;  every- 
thing is  the  reason — everything,  everything." 

"  You  mean,  for  one  thing,  that  your  father  has  gone,  and 
you  are  homesick?" 

"You  said  you  wouldn't  ieW?" 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  I'm  not  sorry  about  tlmt,  because — well,  I  suppose 
I  liked  father  as  well  as  he  liked  me,  but  as  long  as  he  lived 
I'd  have  had  to  stay  on  the  clearin',  and  I  hated  that.     I'm 


CHAP.  XV] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


^Zl 


she 
not 


land 


bose 
Ived 


glad  to  be  here ;  but,  oh !  I  want  so  much — I  want  so  much 
—oh,  Miss  Sophia,  don't  you  know?" 

In  some  mysterious  way  Sophia  felt  that  she  did  know, 
although  she  could  not  in  any  way  formulate  her  confused 
feeling  of  kinship  with  this  young  girl,  so  far  removed  from 
her  in  outward  experience.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had 
at  some  time  known  such  trouble  as  this,  which  was  com- 
posed of  wanting  "  so  much — so  much,"  and  hands  that  were 
stretched,  not  towards  any  living  thing,  but  vaguely  to  all 
possible  possession  outside  the  longing  self. 

"I  want  to  be  something,"  said  Eliza,  "rich  or — I  don't 
know — I  would  like  to  drive  about  in  a  fine  way  like  some 
ladies  do,  or  wear  grander  clothes  than  any  one.  Yes,  I 
would  like  to  keep  a  shop,  or  do  something  to  make  me  very 
rich,  and  make  everybody  wish  they  Avere  like  me." 

Sophia  smiled  to  herself,  but  the  darkness  was  about 
them.  Then  Sophia  sighed.  Crude  as  were  the  notions 
that  went  to  make  up  the  ignorant  idea  of  what  was  desir- 
able, the  desire  for  it  was  without  measure.  There  was  a 
silence,  and  when  Eliza  spoke  again  Sophia  did  not  doubt 
but  that  she  told  her  whole  mind. 

It  is  a  curious  thing,  this,  that  when  a  human  being  of 
average  experience  is  confided  in,  the  natural  impulse  is  to 
assume  that  confidence  is  complete,  and  the  adviser  feels  as 
competent  to  pronounce  upon  the  case  from  the  statement 
given  as  if  minds  were  as  limpid  as  crystal,  and  words  as 
fit  to  represent  them  as  a  mirror  is  to  show  the  objects  it 
reflects.  Yet  if  the  listener  would  but  look  within,  he 
would  know  that  in  any  complicated  question  of  life  there 
would  be  much  that  he  would  not,  more  than  he  could  not, 
tell  of  himself,  unless  long  years  of  closest  companionship 
had  revealed  the  one  heart  to  the  other  in  ways  that  are 
beyond  the  power  of  words.  And  that  is  so  even  if  the 
whole  heart  is  set  to  be  honest  above  all — and  how  many 
hearts  are  so  set? 

"You  see,"  said  Eliza,  "if  people  knew  I  had  lived  on  a 
very  poor  clearin'  and  done  the  work,  they'd  despise  me 
perhaps." 


I 


134 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  I 


"  It  is  no  disgrace  to  any  one  to  have  worked  hard,  and  it 
certainly  cannot  be  a  disadvantage  in  this  country." 

"It  was  rough." 

"  You  are  not  very  rough,  Eliza.  It  strikes  me  that  you 
have  been  pretty  carefully  trained  and  taught." 

"  Yes,  I  was  that " — with  satisfaction.  "  But  don't  you 
think,  if  I  got  on,  grand  people  would  always  look  down  at 
me  if  they  knew  I'd  lived  so  common?  And  besides,  I'm 
sometimes  afraid  the  man  that  went  shares  at  the  land  with 
father  will  want  to  find  me." 

"But  you  said  you  told  him  you  were  coming  away." 

"I  told  him,  plain  and  honest;  but  I  had  a  long  way  to 
walk  till  I  got  to  the  train,  and  I  just  went  off.  But  he 
won't  find  it  so  jasy  to  fill  my  place,  and  get  some  one  to 
do  the  housework  I  He'd  have  kept  me,  if  he  could;  and 
if  he  heard  where  I  was  he  might  come  and  try  to  get  me 
back  by  saying  father  said  I  was  to  obey  him  till  I  was 
twenty-one." 

"  If  your  father  said — that " 

"No,"  cried  the  girl,  vehemently,  "he  never  did." 

"You  will  hear  from  your  uncle  in  Scotland?"  said 
Sophia. 

"  I  don't  believe  he'll  write  to  me.  I  don't  believe  he 
lives  any  more  where  I  sent  the  letter.  It's  years  and  years 
since  father  heard  from  him.  I  said  I'd  write  because  I 
thought  it  would  look  more  respectable  to  Mrs.  Eexford  to 
have  an  uncle.     And  I  did  write;  but  he  won't  answer." 

This  was  certainly  frank. 

"Was  that  honest,  Eliza?" 

"No,  Miss  Sophia;  but  I  feH  so  miserable.  It's  hard  to 
walk  off  with  your  bundle,  and  be  all  alone  and  afraid  of  a 
man  coming  after  you,  and  being  so  angry.  He  was  dread- 
ful angry  when  I  told  him  I'd  come.  If  you'd  only  •prom- 
ise not  tell  where  I  came  from  to  anybody,  so  that  it  can't 
get  round  to  him  that  I'm  here,  and  so  that  people  won't 
know  how  I  lived  before " 

"  Well,  we  certainly  have  no  reason  to  tell  anybody.     If 


CHAP.  XV] 


tVHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


135 


it  will  make  you  content,  T  can  assure  you  none  of  us  will 
talk  about  your  affairs.     Was  that  all  the  trouble?  " 

"No— not  all." 

"Well,  what  else?"  Sophia  laughed  a  little,  and  laid  her 
cool  hand  on  the  girl's  hot  one. 

"I  can't  be  anything  grand  ever,  and  begin  by  being  a 
servant,  Miss  Sophia.  I  say  I'm  not  a  servant,  and  I  try 
not  to  act  like  one;  but  Mrs.  llexford,  she's  tried  hard  to 
make  me  one.  You  wouldn't  like  to  be  a  servant.  Miss 
Sophia?  " 

"  You  are  very  childish  and  foolish,"  said  Sophia.  "  If  I 
had  not  been  just  as  foolish  about  other  things  when  I  was 
your  age  I  would  laugh  at  you  now.  But  I  know  it's  no  use 
to  tell  you  that  the  things  you  want  will  not  make  you 
happy,  and  that  the  things  you  don't  want  would,  because 
I  know  you  will  not  believe  it.  I  will  do  my  best  to  help 
you  to  get  what  you  want,  so  far  as  it  is  not  wrong,  if  you 
will  promise  to  tell  me  all  your  difficulties." 

"Will  you  help  me?     Why  are  you  so  kind?" 

"  Because "  said  Sophia.     Then  she  said  no  more. 

Eliza  showed  herself  cheered. 

"  You'ic  the  only  one  I  care  to  talk  to.  Miss  Sophia.  The 
others  haven't  as  much  sense  as  you,  have  they?" 

As  these  words  were  quietly  put  forth  in  the  darkness, 
without  a  notion  of  impropriety,  Sophia  was  struck  with  the 
fact  that  they  coincided  with  her  own  estimate  of  the  state 
of  the  case. 

"Eliza,  what  are  you  talking  of — not  of  my  father  and 
mother  surely?" 

"Why,  yes.  I  think  they're  good  and  kind,  but  I  don't 
think  they've  a  deal  of  sense — do  you?  " 

"My  father  is  a  wiser  man  than  you  can  understand, 

Eliza;  and "     Sophia  broke  off,  she  was  fain  to  retreat; 

it  was  cold  for  one  thing. 

"  Miss  Sophia,"  said  Eliza,  as  she  was  getting  to  the  door, 
"there's  one  thing — you  know  that  young  man  they  were 
talking  about  to-night?  " 


t3^ 


IVHAT  NEC  ESS /TV  k'NOlVS 


[book  1 


"What  of  him?" 

"Well,  if  he  were  to  ask  about  me,  you'd  not  tell  him 
anything,  would  you?  I've  never  told  anybody  but  you 
about  father,  or  any  particulars.  The  others  don't  know 
anything,  and  you  won't  tell,  will  you?  " 

"  I've  tol  I  you  I  won't  take  upon  myself  to  speak  of  your 
affairs.  What  has  that  young  man  to  do  with  it?  " — with 
some  severity. 

"  It's  only  that  he's  a  traveller,  and  I  feel  so  silly  about 
every  traveller,  for  fear  they'd  want  me  to  go  back  to  the 
clearin'." 

Sophia  took  the  few  necessary  steps  in  the  cold  dark 
granary  and  readied  her  own  room. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 


Sophia  was  sitting  with  Mrs.  Eexford  on  the  sofa  that 
stood  with  its  back  to  the  dining-room  window.  The 
frame  of  the  sofa  was  not  turned,  but  fashioned  with  saw 
and  knife  and  plane;  not  glued,  but  nailed  together.  Yet 
it  did  not  lack  for  comfort;  it  was  built  oblong,  large,  and 
low;  it  was  cushioned  with  sacking  filled  with  loose  hay 
plentifully  mixed  with  Indian  grass  that  gave  forth  a 
sweet  perfume,  and  the  whole  was  covered  with  a  large  neat 
pinafore  of  such  light  washing  stuff  as  women  wear  about 
their  work  on  summer  days.  Sophia  and  her  step-mother 
were  darning  stockings.  The  homesickness  of  the  house- 
hold was  rapidly  subsiding,  and  to-day  these  two  were  not 
uncomfortable  or  unhappy.  The  rest  of  the  family,  some 
to  work,  some  to  play,  and  some  to  run  errands,  had  been 
dismissed  into  the  large  outside. 

The  big  house  was  tranquil.  The  afternoon  sun,  which 
had  got  round  to  the  kitchen  window,  blazed  in  there 
through  a  fringe  of  icicles  that  hung  from  the  low  eaves 
of  the  kitchen  roof,  and  sent  a  long  strip  of  bright  pris- 


CHAP.  XVl] 


WHAT  NEC  ESS/TV  KNOWS 


«37 


iiuitic  rays  across  the  floor  and  through  the  door  on  to  the 
rag  carpet  under  tl»e  dining-room  tabk'.  Ever  and  anon, 
as  the  ladies  sewed,  the  sound  of  sleigh-bells  came  to  them, 
distant,  then  nearer,  tlien  near,  with  the  trotting  of  horses' 
feet  as  they  passed  the  house,  then  again  more  distant. 
Tlie  dining-room  window  faced  the  road,  but  one  could  not 
see  through  it  witliout  standing  upright. 

"Mamma,"  said  Sopliia,  "it  is  quite  clear  we  can  never 
make  an  ordinary  servant  out  of  Eliza;  but  if  we  try  to 
be  companionable  to  her  we  may  help  lier  to  learn  what  she 
needs  to  learn,  and  make  her  more  willing  to  stay  with  us." 

It  was  Mrs.  Eexford's  way  never  to  approach  a  subject 
gradually  in  speech.  If  her  mind  went  through  the  process 
ordinarily  manifested  in  introductory  remarks  it  slipped 
through  it  swiftly  and  silently,  and  her  speech  darted  into 
the  heart  of  the  subject,  or  skipped  about  and  hit  it  on  all 
sides  at  once. 

"  Ah,  but  I  told  her  again  and  again,  Sophia,  to  say  'miss  ' 
to  the  girls.  She  eitlier  didn't  hear,  or  she  forgot,  or  she 
wouldn't  understand.  I  think  you're  the  only  one  she'll 
say  'miss'  to.  But  we  couldn't  do  without  her.  Mrs. 
Nash  was  telling  me  the  other  day  that  her  girl  had  left  in 
the  middle  of  the  washing,  and  the  one  they  had  before 
that  for  a  year — a  little  French  Romanist — stole  all  their 
handkerchiefs,  and  did  not  give  them  back  till  she  made 
confession  to  her  priest  at  Easter.  It  was  very  awkward, 
Sophia,  to  be  without  handkerchiefs  all  winter."  The 
crescendo  emphasis  which  Mrs.  Rexford  had  put  into  her 
remarks  found  its  fortissimo  here.  Then  she  added  more 
mildly,  "  Though  I  got  no  character  with  Eliza  I  am  con- 
vinced she  will  never  pilfer." 

Mrs.  Rexford  was  putting  her  needle  out  and  in  with 
almost  electric  speed.  Her  mind  was  never  quiet,  but 
there  was  a  healthy  cheerfulness  in  her  little  quick  move- 
ments that  removed  them  from  the  region  of  weak  nervous- 
ness. Yet  Sophia  knit  her  brow,  and  it  was  with  an  effort 
that  she  continued  amicably : 


138 


IVHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[hook  r 


"  Certainly  we  should  W  more  uncomfortabh^  without  her 
just  now  than  she  would  be  without  us;  but  it'  she  left  us 
there's  no  saying  wliere  her  ambition  might  lead  her." 

Mrs.  Kexford  bethouglit  her  tliat  she  must  look  at  some 
apples  that  were  baking  in  the  kitchen  oven,  which  she 
did,  and  was  back  in  time  to  make  a  remark  in  exchange 
withtmt  causing  any  noticeal)le  break  in  the  conversation. 
She  always  gave  renuirks  in  exchanges,  seldom  in  reply. 

"  Scotchmen  are  faithful  to  their  kinsfolk  usually,  aren't 
they,  Sophia?  " 

"You  think  that  the  uncle  she  wrote  to  will  answer. 
He  may  be  dead,  or  may  have  moved  away;  the  chances 
are  ten  to  one  that  he  will  not  get  the  letter.  I  think  the 
girl  is  in  our  hands.  We  have  come  into  a  responsibility 
that  we  can't  make  light  of." 

"Good  gracious,  Sophia!  it's  only  the  hen  with  one 
chicken  that's  afraid  to  take  another  under  her  wing." 

"  I  know  you  want  to  do  your  best  for  her — that's  why 
I'm  talking." 

"  Oh,  / — it's  you  that  takes  half  the  burden  of  them  all." 

"  Well,  we  want  to  do  our  best " 

"  And  you,  my  dear,  could  go  back  whenever  you  liked. 
You  have  not  burned  the  bridges  and  boats  behind  you. 
There's  one  would  be  glad  to  see  you  back  in  the  old  coun- 
try, and  that  lover  of  yours  is  a  good  man,  Sophia." 

A  sudden  flush  swept  oy^r  the  young  woman's  face,  as 
if  the  allusion  offended  her;  but  she  took  no  other  notice 
of  what  was  said,  and  continued:  "I  don't  suggest  any 
radical  alteration  in  our  ways ;  I  only  thought  that,  if  you 
had  it  in  your  mind  to  make  a  companion  of  her,  the  pains 
you  take  in  teaching  her  might  take  a  rather  diiferent  form, 
and  perhaps  have  a  better  result." 

"I  think  our  own  girls  grow  more  giddy  every  day,"  said 
Mrs.  Eexford,  exactly  as  if  it  were  an  answer.  "  If  Blue 
and  Red  were  separated  they  would  both  be  more  sensible." 

The  mother's  mind  had  now  wandered  from  thought  of 
the  alien  she  had  taken,  not  because  she  had  not  given 


CHAI'.  XVl] 


WHAT  NEC  ESS /TV  K'NOH'S 


139 


attention  to  the  words  of  the  daugliter  she  thouj^ht  so  wise, 
but  because,  liaving  consi(U'red  them  as  h)ng  as  slie  was 
accustomed  to  consichii-  anything,  slie  had  decided  to  act 
upon  them,  and  so  could  dismiss  the  subject  with  a  good 
conscience. 

The  conversation  ceased  thus,  as  many  conversations  do, 
witliout  apparent  conchision;  for  Sophia,  vexed  by  her 
step-mother's  flighty  manner  of  speech,  liid  lier  mood  in 
silence.  Anything  like  discussion  between  these  two 
always  irritated  Sophia,  and  then,  conscious  that  she  had 
in  this  fallen  below  her  ideal,  she  chafed  again  at  her  own 
irritation.  The  evil  from  which  she  now  suffered  was  of 
the  stuff  of  which  much  of  the  pain  of  life  is  made — a 
flimsy  stuff  that  vanishes  before  the  investigation  of  reason 
more  surely  than  the  stuif  of  our  evanescent  joys.  There 
was  nothing  that  could  be  called  incompatibility  of  temper 
between  these  two;  no  one  saw  more  clearly  than  Sophia 
the  generosity  and  courage  of  Mrs.  Kexford's  heart;  no  one 
else  sympathised  so  deeply  with  her  motherly  cares,  for  no 
one  else  understood  them  half  so  well ;  and  yet  it  might 
have  been  easier  for  Sophia  Kexford  to  have  lived  in  exter- 
nal peace  with  a  covetous  woman,  able  to  appreciate  and 
keep  in  steady  view  the  relative  importance  of  her  ideas. 

Meantime  Mrs.  Kexford  went  on  talking.  She  was  gen- 
erally unconscious  of  the  other's  intellectual  disdain. 
Pretty  soon  they  heard  bells  and  horses'  feet  that  slackened 
at  the  gate.     Sophia  stood  up  to  look. 

There  was  a  comfortable  sleigh,  albeit  somewhat  battered 
and  dingy,  turning  in  at  the  gate.  A  good-looking  girl  was 
driving  it;  a  thin,  pale  lady  sat  at  her  side.  Both  were 
much  enveloped  in  faded  furs.  Over  the  seats  of  the 
sleigh  and  over  their  knees  were  spread  abundant  robes  of 
buffalo  hide.  The  horse  that  drew  the  vehicle  was  an  old 
farm-horse,  and  the  hand  that  guided  the  reins  appeared 
more  skilful  at  driving  than  was  necessary.  The  old  reins 
and  whip  were  held  in  a  most  stylish  manner,  and  the  fair 
driver  made  an  innocent  pretence  of  guiding  her  steed  up 


140 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  I 


the  road  to  the  back-yard  with  care.  The  animal  the  while, 
having  once  been  shown  the  gate,  trotted  quietly,  with 
head  down,  up  the  middle  of  the  sleigh  track,  and  stopped 
humbly  where  the  track  stopped,  precisely  as  it  would  have 
done  had  there  been  no  hand  upon  the  rein. 

Sophia,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  sitting-room,  watched 
the  visitors  tlirough  the  windows  of  that  room  and  of  the 
kitchen,  with  unwonted  animation  in  her  handsome  face. 
The  girl,  who  was  now  evidently  coming  with  her  mother 
to  call  upon  them,  had  been  named  to  her  more  than  once 
by  discriminating  people  as  the  most  likely  person  in  the 
neighbourhood  to  prove  a  friend  and  companion  to  herself, 
and  Sophia,  in  her  present  situation,  could  not  be  at  all  in- 
different to  such  a  prospect.  She  had  already  observed 
them  in  church,  wondering  not  a  little  at  that  scrupulous 
attention  to  ceremony  which  had  made  them  ignore  the 
existence  of  the  newcomers  till  their  acquaintance  should 
have  been  made  in  due  form. 

"Mamma,"  said  she,  "this  is  Mrs.  Bennett  and  her 
daughter." 

"  Something  to  do  with  an  admiral,  haven't  they?  "  cried 
Mrs.  Eexford. 

It  proved  to  be  an  unnecessary  exertion  of  memory  on 
Mrs.  Rexford's  part  to  recollect  what  she  had  heard  of  the 
relatives  of  her  visitors,  for  not  long  after  Mrs.  Bennett 
had  introduced  herself  and  her  daughter  she  brought  her 
uncle,  the  admiral,  into  the  conversation  with  considerable 
skill. 

She  was  a  delicate,  narrow-minded  woman,  with  no  open 
vulgarity  about  her,  but  simply  ignorant  of  the  fact  that 
bragging  of  one's  distinguished  relatives  had  fallen  i.ito 
disuse.  Her  daughter  was  like  her  in  manner,  with  the 
likeness  imposed  by  having  such  a  mother,  but  m,.:^.  more 
largely  made  in  mind  and  body,  pleasant-looking,  healthy, 
high-browed.     Sophia  liked  her  appearance. 

Mrs.  Rexford,  her  mind  ever  upon  some  practical  exi- 
gency, now  remembered  that  she  had  also  heard  that  the 


CHAP.  XVI]         WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


141 


Bennetts  managed  their  dairy  excellently,  and,  having  a 
large  craving  for  help  on  all  such  subjects,  she  began  to 
bewail  her  own  ignorance,  asking  many  and  various  ques- 
tions ;  but,  although  she  did  not  perceive  it,  it  soon  became 
apparent  to  her  more  observant  daughter  that  the  visitors, 
having  come  out  to  make  a  call  of  ceremony,  preferred  to 
.  talk  on  subjects  more  remote  from  their  daily  drudgery,  on 
subjects  which  they  apparently  considered  more  elegant 
and  becoming.  Unable  to  checV.  the  flow  of  her  mother's 
talk,  Sophia  could  only  draw  her  chair  cosily  near  to  Miss 
Bennett  and  strike  into  a  separate  conversation,  hoping  for, 
and  expecting,  mental  refreshment. 

"  I  suppose  there  are  no  good  lending  libraries  in  any  of 
the  towns  near  here,"  she  began.  "How  do  you  get  new 
books  or  magazines?" 

Miss  Bennett  had  a  bright,  cordial  manner.  She  ex- 
plained that  she  thought  there  was  a  circulating  library  in 
every  town.  When  she  was  visiting  in  Quebec  her  friends 
had  got  a  novel  for  her  at  two  cents  a  day.  And  then  she 
said  Principal  Trenholme  bought  a  good  many  books,  and 
he  had  once  told  her  mother  that  he  would  lend  them  any 
they  chose,  but  they  had  never  had  time  to  go  and  look 
over  them.  "It  has,"  she  added,  "been  such  an  advantage 
to  Chellaston  to  have  a  gentleman  so  clever  as  he  at  the 
college." 

"Has  it?"  said  Sophia,  willing  to  hear  more.  "Is  he 
very  clever?  " 

*^ Oh,"  cried  the  other,  "from  Oxford,  you  know;"  and 
she  said  it  in  much  the  tone  she  might  have  said  "from 
heaven." 

"Is  it  long,"  asked  Sophia,  "since  you  have  been  in 
England?  " 

Miss  Bennett  said  she  had  never  been  "home,"  but  she 
longed,  above  all  things,  to  go. 

She  had,  it  seemed,  been  born  in  Canada,  and  her  parents 
had  no  possessions  in  the  motlier-country,  and  yet  she 
always  call-^d  it  "home."    This  was  evidently  a  tradition. 


142 


WHAT  NEC  ESS  I  TV  KNOIVS 


[book  I 


1 


Sophia,  who  liad  come  from  England  a  little  tired  of  the 
conditions  there,  and  eager  for  a  change,  felt  the  pathetic 
sameness  of  the  discontent  wrought  by  surfeit  and  by 
famine. 

"Yet,"  said  she,  "it  is  a  relief  to  the  mind  to  feel  that 
one  lives  in  a  country  where  no  worthy  person  is  starving, 
and  where  every  one  has  a  good  chance  in  life  if  he  will 
but  avail  himself  of  it.  It  seems  to  make  me  breathe 
more  freely  to  know  that  in  all  this  great  country  there  is 
none  of  that  necessary  poverty  that  we  have  in  big  English 
towns." 

Little  answer  was  made  to  this,  and  Sophia  went  on  to 
talk  of  what  interested  her  in  English  politics ;  but  found 
that  of  the  politics,  as  well  as  of  the  social  condition,  of 
the  country  she  adored,  Miss  Bennett  was  largely  ignorant. 
Her  interest  in  such  matters  appeared  to  sum  itself  up  in 
a  serene  belief  that  Disraeli,  then  prominent,  was  the  one 
prop  of  the  English  Constitution,  and  as  adequate  to  his 
position  as  Atlas  beneath  the  world.  Now,  Sophia  cher- 
ished many  a  Radical  opinion  of  her  own,  and  she  would 
have  enjoyed  discussion ;  but  it  would  have  been  as  difficult 
to  aim  a  remark  at  the  present  front  of  her  new  acquaint- 
ance as  it  would  be  for  a  marksman  to  show  his  skill  with 
a  cloud  of  vapour  as  a  target.  Sophia  tried  Canadian  poli- 
tics, owning  her  ignorance  and  expressing  her  desire  to 
understand  what  she  had  read  in  the  newspapers  since  her 
arrival;  but  Miss  Bennett  was  not  sure  that  there  was  any- 
thing that  "  could  exactly  be  called  politics  "  in  Canada, 
except  that  there  was  a  Liberal  party  who  "  wanted  to  ruin 
the  country  by  free  trade." 

Sophia  ceased  to  take  the  initiative.  She  still  endeav- 
oured to  respect  the  understanding  of  a  girl  of  whom  she 
had  heard  that  when  her  father's  fortunes  were  at  a  low 
ebb  she  had  retrieved  them  by  good  management  and 
personal  industry — a  girl,  too,  who  through  years  of  toil 
had  preserved  sprightliuess  and  perfect  gentility.  What 
though  this  gentility  was  somewhat  cramped  by  that  undue 


I 


i 


CHAP.  XVI]         WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


143 


in 


importance  given  to  trifles  wliich  is  often  the  result  of  a 
remote  life;  it  was  still  a  very  lovely  thing,  a  jewel  shin- 
ing all  the  more  purely  for  its  iron  setting  of  honest  labour. 
Sophia  fought  with  the  scorn  that  was  thrusting  itself  into 
her  heart  as  she  listened  when  Miss  Bennett  now  talked  in 
a  charming  way  about  the  public  characters  and  incidents 
which  interested  her. 

"I  wish  for  your  sake,  Miss  Kexford,"  she  said,  "that 
some  of  the  Royal  family  would  come  out  again.  The  only 
time  that  there  is  any  real  advantage  in  being  in  a  colony 
is  when  some  of  them  come  out;  for  here,  you  know,  they 
take  notice  of  every  one." 

"One  would  still  be  on  the  general  level  then,"  said 
Sophia,  smiling. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know.  It  makes  one  feel  distinguished, 
you  know,  in  spite  of  that.  Now,  when  the  Prince  was 
out,  he  stopped  here  for  a  night,  and  we  had  a  ball.  It 
wa,s  simply  delightful!  He  danced  with  us  all — I  mean 
with  all  who  could  claim  to  be  ladies,  and  indeed  with 
some  who  could  not;  but  how  could  he  discriminate? 
There  was  a  man  called  Blake,  who  kept  a  butcher's  shop 
here  tlien — you  may  have  noticed  we  haven't  such  a  thing 
as  a  butcher's  shop  in  the  village  now,  Miss  llexford?" 

"Indeed  I  have.     It  seems  so  odd." 

"Blake  had  a  handsome  daughter;  and  when  we  had  a 
ball  for  the  Prince,  didn't  he  buy  her  a  fine  dress,  and  take 
her  to  it!     She  really  looked  very  handsome." 

"I  hope  the  Prince  danced  with  her,"  laughed  Sophia. 
Her  good  spirits  were  rising,  in  spite  of  herself,  under  the 
influence  of  the  liveliness  with  which  Miss  Bennett's  mind 
had  darted,  birdlike,  into  its  own  element. 

"  Fes,  he  did.  Wasn't  it  good-natured  of  him!  I  be- 
lieve his  aide-de-camp  told  him  who  she  was;  but  he  was 
so  gracious;  he  said  she  should  not  go  away  mortified.  I 
never  spoke  to  her  myself;  but  I've  no  doubt  she  was 
unable  to  open  her  mouth  without  betraying  her  origin; 
but  perhaps  on  that  occasion  she  had  the  grace  to  keep 
silent,  and  she  danced  fairly  well." 


144 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  I 


"Was  her  head  turned  by  the  honour?"  asked  Sophia, 
led  by  the  other's  tone  to  expect  a  sequel  to  the  tale. 

"  Poor  girl !  The  end  was  sadder  than  that.  She  caught 
a  violent  cold,  from  wearing  a  dress  cut  low  when  she 
wasn't  accustomed  to  it,  and  she  died  in  a  week.  When  we 
heard  of  it  I  was  glad  that  he  had  danced  with  her;  but 
some. were  cruel  enough  to  say  that  it  served  Blake  right 
for  his  presumption.  He  was  so  broken-hearted  he  left 
the  place.  The  dress  she  wore  that  night  was  a  green  silk, 
and  he  had  her  buried  in  it;  and  some  one  told  the  Prince, 
and  he  sent  some  flowers.  Wasn't  it  sweet  of  him!  They 
were  buried  with  her  too.     It  was  quite  romantic." 

"More  romantic  to  have  such  a  swan-like  death  than  to 
live  on  as  a  butcher's  daughter,"  said  Sophia,  and  sarcasm 
was  only  a  small  ingredient  in  the  speech. 

"We  were  quite  grieved  about  it,"  said  Miss  Bennett, 
sincerely. 

Sophia  also  felt  sorry,  but  it  was  not  her  way  to  say  so. 
She  was  more  interested  in  remarking  upon  the  singular 
method  of  getting  butcher's  meat  then  in  vogue  at  Chellas- 
ton.  A  Frenchman,  a  butcher  in  a  small  way,  drove  from 
door  to  door  with  his  stock,  cutting  and  weighing  his  joints 
in  an  open  box-sleigh.  To  see  the  frozen  meat  thus  manip- 
ulated in  the  midst  of  the  snow  had  struck  Sophia  as  one 
of  the  most  novel  features  of  their  present  way  of  life. 
Miss  Bennett,  however,  could  hardly  be  expected  to  feel  its 
picturesqueness.  Her  parents  did  not  fancy  this  vendor's 
meat,  and  at  present  they  usually  killed  their  own.  Her 
father,  she  said,  had  grown  quite  dexterous  in  the  art. 

"  Really !  "  cried  Sophia.  This  was  an  item  of  real  inter- 
est, for  it  suggested  to  her  for  the  first  time  the  idea  that  a 
gentleman  could  slaughter  an  ox.  She  was  not  shocked ;  it 
was  simply  a  new  idea,  which  she  would  have  liked  to 
enlarge  on;  but  good-breeding  forbade,  for  Miss  Bennett 
preferred  to  chat  about  tlie  visit  of  the  Prince,  and  she 
continued  to  do  so  in  a  manner  so  lively  that  Sophia  found 
it  no  dull  hearing. 


CHAP.  XVI]  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


145 


ts 


a 
t 


"And,  do  you  know,"  she  cried,  "what  EerthaNash  did? 
The  Nashes,  you  know,  are  of  quite  a  common  family, 
although,  as  Dr.  Nash  is  everybody's  doctor,  of  course  we 
are  all  on  good  terms  with  them.  Well,  Bertha  asked  the 
Prince  how  his  mother  was !  "     She  stopped. 

"I  suppose  he  knew  whom  she  was  talking  about?" 

"  Oh,  that  was  the  worst  of  it — he  couldn't  help  knowing," 
cried  Miss  Bennett.  "  I  should  have  sunk  through  the  floor 
with  mortification  if  I  had  done  such  a  thing.  I  should 
have  expected  to  be  arrested  on  the  spot  for  high  treason. 
Bertha  says,  you  know,  that  she  was  so  nervous  at  the 
thought  of  who  her  partner  was  that  she  didn't  know  what 
she  was  saying;  but  I  scarcely  think  she  knew  really  how 
to  address  him.  One  can  never  be  thankful  enough,  I'm 
sure,  for  having  been  thoroughly  well  brought  up." 

She  went  on  to  explain  what  had  been  her  own  sensations 
when  first  accosted  by  this  wonderful  Prince,  upon  being  led 
out  by  him,  and  so  on.  It  all  sounded  like  a  new  fairy  tale; 
but  afterwards,  when  she  had  gone,  with  cordial  wishes,  as 
she  took  leave,  that  another  prince  might  come  soon  and 
dance  with  Sophia,  the  latter  felt  as  if  she  had  been  reading 
a  page  of  an  old-fashioned  history  which  took  account  only 
of  kings  and  tournaments. 

This  visit  was  a  distinct  disappointment  on  the  whole. 
Sophia  had  hoped  more  from  it,  and  coming  after  weeks 
that  had  been  trying,  it  had  power  to  depress.  It  was  late 
afternoon  now,  and  the  day  was  the  last  in  the  year. 
Sophia,  going  upstairs  to  get  rid  of  the  noise  of  the  chil- 
dren, was  arrested  by  the  glow  of  the  sunset,  and,  wea^y  as 
she  was,  stood  long  by  the  diamond  window  that  was  b  i:  in 
the  wooden  wall  of  her  room.  It  was  cold.  She  wrapped 
a  cloak  about  her.  She  did  not  at  first  look  observantly  at 
the  glow  and  beauty  outside.  Her  eyes  wandered  over  the 
scene,  the  bright  colour  upon  it  rousing  just  enough  interest 
to  keep  her  standing  there :  her  thoughts  were  within. 

Sophia  Kexford  had  set  herself,  like   many  a  saint  of 
olden  and  modern  times,  to  crush  within  her  all  selfishness  j 


146 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  I 


and  the  result  had  been  the  result  of  all  such  effort  when  it 
is  staunch  and  honest — to  show  that  that  against  which  she 
was  warring  was  no  mere  mood  or  bad  habit,  to  be  overcome 
by  directing  the  life  on  a  nobler  plan,  but  a  living  thing, 
with  a  vitality  so  strong  that  it  seemed  as  if  God  Himself 
must  have  given  it  life.  She  stood  now  baffled,  as  she  had 
often  been  before,  by  her  invincible  enemy.  Where  was 
the  selfless  temper  of  mind  tliat  was  her  ideal?  Certainly 
not  within  her.  She  was  too  candid  to  suppose  for  a 
moment  that  the  impatient  scorn  she  felt  for  those  with 
whom  she  had  been  talking  approached  in  any  way  to  that 
humility  and  love  that  are  required  of  the  Christian.  She 
felt  overwhelmed  by  surging  waves  of  evil  within.  It  was 
at  the  source  the  fountain  ought  to  be  sweet,  and  there 
ambition  and  desire  for  pleasure  rose  still  triumphant;  and 
the  current  of  her  will,  set  against  them,  seemed  only  to 
produce,  not  their  abatement,  but  a  whirlpool  of  discontent, 
which  sucked  into  itself  all  natural  pleasures,  and  cast  out 
around  its  edge  those  dislikes  and  disdains  which  were 
becoming  habitual  in  her  intercourse  with  others.  It  was 
all  wrong — she  knew  it.  She  leaned  her  head  against  the 
cold  pane,  and  her  eyes  grew  wet  with  tears. 

There  is  no  sorrow  on  earth  so  real  as  this ;  no  other  for 
which  such  bitter  tears  have  been  shed ;  no  other  which  has 
so  moved  the  heart  of  God  with  sympathy.  Yet  there  came 
to  Sophia  just  then  a  strange  thought  that  her  tears  were 
unnecessary,  that  the  salvation  of  the  world  was  something 
better  than  this  conflict,  that  the  angels  were  looking  upon 
her  discouragement  in  pained  surprise. 

She  had  no  understanding  with  which  to  take  in  this 
thought.  As  she  looked  at  it,  with  her  soul's  eye  dim,  it 
passed  away ;  and  she,  trying  in  vain  to  recall  the  light  that 
it  seemed  to  hold,  wondered  if  it  would  come  again. 

Perhaps  the  tears,  had  given  relief  to  her  brain ;  perhaps 
some  Divine  Presence  had  come  near  her,  giving  hope  that 
she  could  not  weigh  or  measure  or  call  by  name;  at  any 
rate,   as  she  looked  round  again  with  fresh  glance,  the 


1 


CHAP.  XVl] 


JV//AT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


147 


haps 

that 

any 

the 


scene  outside  seemed  fairer  than  it  had  yet  appeared  to 
her. 

A  long  strip  had  been  swept  on  tlie  ice  of  the  river  by 
pleasure-loving  hands.  Down  this  burnished  path  young 
men  and  maidens  were  skating,  and  their  way  was  paved 
with  gold.  There  was  soft  tinting  of  this  same  light  on  the 
undulations  of  the  pearly  land  beyond;  blue  shadows  were  in 
its  woods,  and  reflected  fire  on  many  a  window  of  the  houses 
that  clustered  near  and  far.  She  knew  that  in  each  house 
that  was  a  true  Canadian  home  there  was  joyous  prepara- 
tions going  on  for  the  next  day's  fete.  She  wondered  what 
it  would  be  like  to  be  at  home  in  this  country,  to  be  one  in 
its  sports  and  festivities.  She  could  not  see  from  her  attic 
window  the  land  on  this  side  of  the  river,  but  she  heard  the 
shouts  of  some  boys  who  were  spending  their  holiday  at  the 
college.  They  were  at  some  game  or  other  in  a  field  near. 
Sophia  liked  to  hear  them. 

Just  then  Mrs.  Kexford  came  upstairs  to  consult  her 
about  something.  She  joined  in  the  outlook  for  a  few 
moments,  and  the  sunset  made  her  reflective. 

"Well,  my  love,"  said  she,  "last  year  at  this  time  we  did 
not  know  we  should  be  here  to-day!  Ah,  Sophia,  it  is 
ahvays  a  little  doleful  to  see  the  Old  Year  go  out;  but  here, 
where  there  are  no  bells  in  the  churches,  it  will  seem  less 
solemn." 


this 

m,  it 

that 


END    OF    BOOK    I. 


'^ 


BOOK  II. 


**  Necessity,  like  ligMs  electric  force, 
Is  in  ourselves  and  all  things,  and  no  more 
Without  us  than  within  us ." 


■"■^ 


i       ! 


■m 


CHAPTER  I. 


The  bells  have  solemn  sound  that  from  old  belfries  ring 
the  passing  of  the  year  in  the  hearing  of  thousands;  but 
perhaps  it  is  a  more  solemn  thing  to  watch  and  tell  the 
birth  of  a  new  year  by  the  march  of  stars  that  look  down 
out  of  their  purple  void  upon  a  land  of  trackless  snow.  If 
ceremony  and  the  united  sentiment  of  many  heaits  have 
impressive  effect,  they  yet  tend  to  lighten  the  burden  of 
individual  responsibility,  which  presses  with  weight,  like 
the  weight  of  the  atmosphere  upon  a  vacuum,  when  a  man 
tries  to  grapple  with  his  own  soul  in  solitude. 

Alec  Trenholme  was  spending  another  wakeful  night  in 
tlie  living-room  of  his  small  railway  station.  Winter  lay 
around  him.  For  a  month  the  blueberry  flats  and  bramble 
thickets  had  been  wholly  lost  under  the  snow,  which 
stretched  far  whiter  than  the  pure  white  of  the  birch  trees 
in  the  nearest  groves.  Now  the  last  night  I  t  one  of  the 
old  year  had  brought  a  fresh  downfall,  unusually  heavy ;  the 
long,  straight  railway  track,  and  the  sleigh-road  which  was 
kept  open  between  the  station  and  Turrifs  Settlement,  had 
been  obliterated  by  it.  Alec  Trenholme  had  awoke  that 
morning  to  observe  that  his  little  station  of  new  wood,  and 
tlie  endless  line  of  rough  telegraph  poles,  were  the  only 
remaining  signs  of  man's  lordship  of  earth,  as  far  as  his 
eyes  could  see.  It  was  upon  this  sight,  when  the  snow 
clouds  had  fled,  that  he  had  seen  a  scarlet  sun  come  up; 
over  the  same  scene  he  had  watched  it  roll  its  golden 
cliariot  all  day,  and,  tinging  the  same  unbroken  drifts,  it 
had  sunk  scarlet  again  in  the  far  southwest.  H  had  not 
been  far  from  his  house,  and  no  one,  in  train,  or  £>ieigh,  or 
on  snow-shoes,  had  happened  to  come  near  it. 

161 


152 


WHAT  NKCESS/TV  KNOWS 


[rook  II 


He  would  have  gone  liiinsclf  to  Tiirrifs  for  milk,  for  tlie 
pleasure  of  exchanging  a  word  with  liis  fellow-men,  and  for 
air  and  exercise,  had  it  not  been  that  he  had  hourly  expected 
to  see  an  engine,  witli  its  snow-plough,  approaching  on  the 
rails.  Conversation  by  telegraph  would  have  been  a  relief 
to  him,  but  the  wires  seemed  to  have  succund)ed  in  more 
than  one  place  to  their  weight  of  snow,  and  there  was  noth- 
ing for  this  young  stationmaster  to  do  but  wait,  and  believe 
that  communication  would  be  re-established  over  the  road 
and  the  wires  sooner  or  later.  In  the  meantime  he  suffered 
no  personal  inconvenience,  unless  loneliness  can  be  thus 
named,  for  he  had  abundance  of  food  and  fuel.  He  watched 
the  oright  day  wane  and  the  sun  of  the  old  year  set,  and 
filled  his  stove  with  wood,  and  ate  his  supper,  and  told  him- 
self that  he  was  a  very  fortunate  fellow  and  much  better  off 
than  a  large  proportion  of  men. 

It  is  not  always  when  we  tell  ourselves  that  we  are  well 
off  that  we  are  happiest :  that  self-addressed  assertion  often 
implies  some  tacit  contradiction. 

When  darkness  came  he  wondered  if  he  should  put  on  his 
snow-shoes  and  run  over  to  Turrifs.  Yet  for  some  reason  he 
did  not  go,  in  the  way  that  men  so  often  do  not  do  things 
that  they  think  on  the  whole  would  be  very  good  things  to 
do.  An  hour  or  two  later  he  knew  that  the  good  people 
there  would  have  gone  to  bed  and  that  he  had  no  longer  the 
option  of  going.  He  did  not  go  to  bed  himself.  He  had 
not  had  enough  exercise  that  day  to  make  him  sleepy;  and 
then,  too,  he  thought  he  would  sit  up  and  see  the  old  year 
out.  He  had  an  indistinct  idea  that  it  was  rather  a  virtu- 
ous thing  to  do,  rather  more  pious  than  sleeping  the  night 
through  just  as  if  it  were  any  other  night.  He  put  his 
much-handled,  oft-read  books  down  before  him  on  the  table, 
and  set  himself  to  passing  the  evening  with  them.  Mid- 
night is  actually  midnight  when  the  sun  goes  down  before 
five  o'clock  and  there  is  no  artificial  interest  for  the  after 
hours. 

Most  men  liave  more  religion  at  heart,  latent  or  devel- 


CHAP.  l] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


153 


oped,  than  can  be  seen  by  others.  When  they  have  not, 
when  what  shows  is  as  much  as  what  is — (iod  pity  tht^n! 

Alec  Trenholnie  was  not  given  to  self-dissection  or  to 
expression  of  his  private  sentiments,  therefore  neither  to 
himself  nor  to  others  was  the  religion  of  him  very  visible. 
Nevertheless,  this  evening  his  books,  which  had  become  not 
less  bnt  more  to  him  because  he  Jiad  read  them  often,  palled 
upon  his  taste.  When  he  was  a  boy  his  father  had  taught 
him  that  at  New  Year's  time  one  ought  to  consider  whether 
the  past  had  been  spent  well,  and  how  the  future  could  be 
spent  better.  So,  as  time  went  on,  he  pushed  his  books 
further  and  set  himself  to  this  consideration.  For  a  while 
he  sat  looking  at  his  own  doings  only  by  the  light,  as  it 
were,  of  two  candles — the  one,  of  expediency;  the  other, 
of  rectitude.     Had  he  been  wise?     Had  he  been  good? 

Not  being  of  a  contemplative  or  egotistical  disposition, 
he  soon  fidgeted.  Thinking  he  heard  a  sound  outside,  which 
miglit  be  wiiul  rising,  or  might  be  the  distant  approach  of 
the  iron  snow-plough,  he  got  up  to  look  out.  The  small 
panes  of  his  window  were  so  obscured  by  frostwork  that  he 
did  not  attempt  to  look  through  the  glass,  but  opened  his 
door.  Far  or  near  there  was  no  sign  of  rising  wind  or  com- 
ing engine;  only,  above,  the  glowing  stars,  with  now  and 
then  a  shaft  of  northern  light  passing  majestically  beneath 
them,  and,  below,  the  great  white  world,  dim,  but  clearly 
seen  as  it  reflected  the  light.  The  constellations  attracted 
his  attention.  There  hung  Orion,  there  the  Pleiades,  there 
those  mists  of  starlight  which  tell  us  of  space  and  time  of 
which  we  cannot  conceive.  Standing,  looking  upwards,  he 
suddenly  believed  himself  to  be  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
God. 

When  the  keen  air  upon  his  bare  head  had  driven  him 
indoors,  he  sat  down  again  to  formulate  his  good  resolu- 
tions, he  found  that  his  candles  of  expediency  and  morality 
had  gone  out.  The  light  which  was  there  instead  was  the 
Presence  of  God ;  but  so  dilfused  was  this  light,  so  dim,  that 
it  was  as  hard  for  him  now  to  see  distinction  between  right 


1 

{ 

? 

f 

I 

i 

« 

I 

•- 

i         i' 

154 


W^/^^r  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  II 


and  wrong  as  it  would  have  been  outside  upon  the  snow  to 
see  a  shadow  cast  by  rays  which  had  left  their  stars  half  a 
century  before.  All,  all  of  which  he  could  think  seemed 
wrong,  because  it  was  not  God;  all,  all  of  which  he  could 
think  seemed  right,  because  it  was  part  of  God.  The  young 
man's  face  sank  on  his  arms  and  lay  buried  there,  while  he 
thought,  and  thought,  and  thought,  trying  to  bring  a  life  of 
which  he  could  think  into  relation  with  that  which  is 
unthinkable. 

Was  ever  reverie  more  vain!  He  raised  his  head  and 
stared  about  him.  The  glaring  lamp  showed  all  the  details 
of  the  room,  and  made  it  seem  so  real,  so  much  more  real 
than  mere  thoughts,  let  alone  that  of  which  one  cannot 
think.  He  got  up  to  alter  the  stove -damper,  pushing  it 
shut  with  a  clatter  of  iron,  burning  his  fingers  slightly,  and 
sat  down  again,  feeling  it  a  relief  to  know,  if  by  the  smart, 
that  he  had  touched  something. 

The  wood  within  the  stove  ceased  blazing  when  the  damper 
was  shut,  and  when  its  crackling  was  silenced  there  was  a 
great  quiet.  The  air  outside  was  still;  the  flame  of  the 
lamp  could  hardly  make  sound.  Trenholme's  watch,  which 
lay  on  the  table,  ticked  and  seemed  to  clamour  for  his  atten- 
tion. He  glanced  down  at  it.  It  was  not  very  far  from 
midnight. 

Just  then  he  heard  another  sound.  It  was  possibly  the 
same  as  that  which  came  to  him  an  hour  ago,  but  more 
continuous.  There  was  no  mistaking  this  time  that  it  was 
an  unusual  one.  It  seemed  to  him  like  a  human  voice  in 
prolonged  ejaculatory  speech  at  some  distance. 

Startled,  he  again  looked  out  of  his  door.  At  first  he 
saw  nothing,  but  what  he  had  seen  before — the  world  of 
snow,  the  starry  skies.  Yet  the  sound,  which  stopped  and 
again  went  on,  came  to  him  as  if  from  the  direction  in  which 
he  looked.  Looking,  listening  intently,  he  was  just  about 
to  turn  in  for  his  coat  and  snow-shoes  in  order  to  go  forth 
and  seek  the  owner  of  the  voice,  when  he  perceived  some- 
thing moving  between  him  and  the  nearest  wood — that  very 


CHAP.  l] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


'55 


ten- 
:rom 

the 

more 

was 

e  in 

he 

K  of 

and 

lich 

)OUt 

rth 
ne- 
ery 


birch  wood  in  which,  more  than  a  month  before,  he  had 
sought  for  the  man  Cameron  who  had  disappeared  from  his 
own  coffin.  In  an  instant  the  mood  of  that  time  flashed 
back  on  him  as  if  there  had  been  nothing  between. 

All  the  search  that  had  been  made  for  Cameron  in  the 
first  days  of  the  snow  had  resulted  in  nothing  but  the  find- 
ing of  his  coarse  winding-sheet  in  this  birch  wood.  Then 
and  since,  confused  rumours  had  come  that  he  was  wander- 
ing from  village  to  village,  but  no  one  had  been  brave 
enough  to  detain  him.  Trenholme  knew  that  people  on  the 
railway  line  to  the  south  believed  firmly  that  the  old  man 
was  still  alive,  or  that  his  ghost  walked.  Now,  as  his  eyes 
focussrid  more  intently  upon  the  moving  thing,  it  looked  to 
him  like  a  man. 

Again  he  heard  the  sound  of  a  voice,  a  man's  voice  cer- 
tainly. It  was  raised  for  the  space  of  a  minute  in  a  sort  of 
chant,  not  loud  enough  for  him  to  hear  any  word  or  to  know 
what  language  was  spoken. 

"  Hi ! "  cried  Trenholme  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  "  Hi, 
there !    What  do  you  want?  " 

There  was  no  doubt  that  a  man  out  there  could  have 
heard,  yet,  whatever  the  creature  was,  it  took  not  the  slight- 
est notice  of  the  challenge. 

As  his  eyes  grew  accustomed  to  the  dim  light  he  saw 
that  the  figure  was  moving  on  the  top  of  the  deep  snow 
near  the  outskirts  of  the  wood — moving  about  in  an  aim- 
less way,  stopping  occasionally,  and  starting  again,  raising 
the  voice  sometimes,  and  again  going  on  in  silence.  Tren- 
holme could  not  descry  any  track  left  on  the  snow ;  all  that 
he  could  see  was  a  large  figure  dressed  in  garments  which, 
in  the  starlight,  did  not  seem  to  differ  very  much  in  hue 
from  the  snow,  and  he  gained  the  impression  that  the  head 
was  thrown  back  and  the  face  uplifted  to  the  stars. 

He  called  again,  adjuring  the  man  he  saw  to  come  at  once 
and  say  why  he  was  there  and  what  he  wanted.  No  atten- 
tion was  paid  to  him ;  he  might  as  well  have  kept  silent. 

A  minute  or  two  more  and  he  went  in,  shut  and  bolted 


156  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  ii 

his  door,  even  took  the  trouble  to  see  that  the  door  of  the 
baggage-room  was  secured.  He  took  his  lamp  down  from 
the  wall  where,  by  its  tin  reflector,  it  hung  on  a  nail,  and 
set  it  on  the  table  for  company.  He  opened  the  damper  of 
the  stove  again,  so  that  the  logs  within  crackled.  Then  he 
sat  down  and  began  to  read  the  Shakespeare  he  had  pushed 
from  him  before.  What  he  had  seen  and  heard  seemed  to 
him  very  curious.  No  obligation  rested  upon  him,  cer- 
tainly, to  go  out  and  seek  this  weird-looking  creature. 
There  was  probably  nothing  supernatural,  but — well,  while 
a  man  is  alone  it  is  wisest  to  shut  out  all  that  has  even  the 
appearance  of  the  supernatural  from  his  house  and  from 
his  mind.  So  Trenholme  argued,  choosing  the  satirical  fool 
of  the  Forest  of  Arden  to  keep  him  company. 

"Now  am  I  in  Arden;  the  more  fool  I;  when  I  was  at 
home,  I  was  in  a  better  place :  but  travellers  must  be  con- 
tent." 

Trenholme  smiled.  He  had  actually  so  controlled  his 
mind  as  to  become  lost  in  his  book. 

There  was  a  sound  as  if  of  movement  on  the  light  snow 
near  by  and  of  hard  breathing.  Trenholme's  senses  were 
all  alert  again  now  as  he  turned  his  head  to  listen.  When 
the  moving  figure  had  seem^ed  so  indifferent  to  his  calls, 
what  reason  could  it  have  now  for  seeking  his  door — unless, 
indeed,  it  were  a  dead  man  retracing  his  steps  by  some  mys- 
terious impulse,  such  as  even  the  dead  might  feel?  Tren- 
holme's heart  beat  low  with  the  thought  as  he  heard  a  heavy 
body  bump  clumsily  against  the  baggage-room  door  and  a 
hand  fumble  at  its  latch.  There  was  enough  light  shining 
through  his  window  to  have  shown  any  natural  man  that 
the  small  door  of  his  room  was  the  right  one  by  which  to 
enter,  yet  the  fumbling  at  the  other  door  continued. 

Trenholme  went  into  the  dark  baggage-room  and  heard 
the  stir  against  the  door  outside.  He  went  near  it.  Who- 
ever was  there  went  on  fumbling  to  find  some  way  of 
entrance. 

By  this  time,  if  Trenholme  had  suffered  any  shock  of 


CHAP.  l] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


^57 


dismay,  he  had  righted  himself,  as  a  ship  rights  itself  after 
shuddering  beneath  a  wave.  Clearly  it  now  came  within 
his  province  to  find  out  what  the  creature  wanted;  he  went 
back  into  his  room  and  opened  its  outer  door. 

Extending  beyond  the  wall,  the  flooring  of  the  house 
made  a  little  platform  outside,  and,  as  the  opening  of  the 
door  illuminated  this,  a  man  came  quietly  across  the  thresh- 
old with  clumsy  gait.  Tliis  man  was  no  ghost.  What 
fear  of  the  supernatural  had  gathered  about  Trenholme's 
mind  fell  off  from  it  instantly  in  self-scorn.  The  stranger 
was  tall  and  strong,  dressed  in  workman's  light-coloured 
clothes,  with  a  big,  somewhat  soiled  bit  of  white  cotton 
worn  round  his  shoulders  as  a  shawl.  He  carried  in  his 
hand  a  fur  cap  such  as  Canadian  farmers  wear;  his  grey 
head  was  bare.  What  was  chiefly  remarkable  was  that  he 
passed  Trenholme  without  seeming  to  see  him,  and  stood  in 
the  middle  of  the  room  with  a  look  of  expectation.  His 
face,  which  was  rugged,  with  a  glow  of  weather-beaten 
health  upon  it,  had  a  brightness,  a  strength,  an  eagerness, 
a  sensibility,  which  were  indescribable. 

"Well?"  asked  Trenholme  rather  feebly;  then  reluc- 
tantly he  shut  the  door,  for  all  the  cold  of  the  night  was 
pouring  in.  Neither  of  him  nor  of  his  words  or  actions 
did  the  old  man  take  the  slightest  notice. 

The  description  that  had  been  given  of  old  Cameron  was 
fulfilled  in  the  visitor;  but  what  startled  Trenholme  more 
than  this  likeness,  which  might  have  been  the  result  of 
mere  chance,  was  the  evidence  that  this  man  was  not  a 
person  of  ordinary  senses  and  wits.  He  seemed  like  one 
who  had  passed  through  some  crisis,  which  had  deprived 
him  of  much,  and  given  him  perhaps  more.  It  appeared 
probable,  from  his  gait  and  air,  that  he  was  to  some  extent 
blind;  but  the  eagerness  of  the  eyes  and  the  expression  of 
the  aged  face  were  enough  to  suggest  at  once,  even  to  an 
unimaginative  mind,  that  he  was  looking  for  some  vision 
of  which  he  did  not  doubt  the  reality  and  listening  for 
sounds  which  he  longed  to  hear.     He  put  out  a  large  hand 


IS8 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  II 


I  I 


i  \ 

'  I 


i         :    1 


and  felt  the  table  as  he  made  his  clumsy  way  round  it. 
He  looked  at  nothing  in  the  room  but  the  lamp  on  the  table 
where  Trenholme  had  lately  put  it.  Trenholme  doubted, 
however,  if  he  saw  it  or  anything  else.  When  he  got  to 
the  other  side,  having  wandered  behind  the  reflector,  he 
stopped,  as  if  perhaps  the  point  of  light,  dimly  seen,  had 
guided  him  so  far  but  now  was  lost. 

Trenholme  asked  him  why  he  had  come,  what  his  name 
was,  and  several  such  questions.  He  raised  his  voice 
louder  and  louder,  but  he  might  as  well  have  talked  to  the 
inanimate  things  about  him.  This  one  other  human  being 
who  had  entered  his  desolate  scene  took,  it  would  seem,  no 
cognisance  of  him  at  all.  Just  as  we  know  that  animals 
in  some  cases  have  senses  for  sights  and  sounds  which  make 
no  impression  on  human  eyes  and  ears,  and  are  impervious 
to  v/hat  we  see  and  hear,  so  it  seemed  to  Trenholme  that 
the  man  before  him  had  organs  of  sense  dead  to  the  world 
about  him,  but  alive  to  something  which  he  alone  could 
perceive.  It  might  have  been  a  fantastic  idea  produced  by 
the  strange  circumstances,  but  it  certainly  was  an  idea  which 
leaped  into  his  mind  and  would  not  be  reasoned  away.  He 
did  not  feel  repulsion  for  the  poor  wanderer,  or  fear  of 
him ;  he  felt  rather  a  growing  attraction — in  part  curiosity, 
in  part  pity,  in  part  desire  for  whatever  it  might  be  that 
had  brought  the  look  of  joyous  expectancy  into  the  aged 
face.  This  look  had  faded  now  to  some  extent.  The  old 
man  stood  still,  as  one  who  had  lost  his  way,  not  seeking 
for  indications  of  that  which  he  had  lost,  but  looking  right 
forwards  and  upwards,  steadily,  calmly,  as  if  sure  that 
something  would  appear. 

Trenholme  laid  a  strong  hand  upon  his  arm.  "Came- 
ron ! "  he  shouted,  to  see  if  that  name  would  rouse  him. 
The  ar>  that  he  grasped  felt  like  a  rock  for  strength  and 
stillness.  The  name  which  he  shouted  more  than  once  did 
not  seem  to  enter  the  ears  of  the  man  who  had  perhaps 
owned  it  in  the  past.  He  shook  off  Trenholme's  hand 
gently  without  turning  towards  him. 


CHAP.  Il] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


159 


"Ay,"  he  said.  (His  voice  was  strong.)  Then  he  shook 
his  head  with  a  patient  sigh.  "Not  here,"  he  said,  "not 
here."  He  spoke  as  deaf  men  speak,  unconscious  of  the 
key  of  their  own  voice.  Tlien  he  turned  shuffling  round 
the  table  again,  and  seemed  to  be  seeking  for  the  door. 

"Look  here,"  said  Trenholme,  "don't  go  out."  Again 
he  put  his  hand  strongly  on  his  visitor,  and  again  he  was 
quietly  brushed  aside.  The  outside  seemed  so  terribly  cold 
and  dark  and  desolate  for  this  poor  old  man  to  wander  in, 
that  Trenholme  was  sorry  he  should  go.  Yet  go  he  did, 
opening  the  door  and  shutting  it  behind  him. 

Trenholme's  greatcoat,  cap,  and  snow-shoes  were  hanging 
against  the  wall.  He  put  them  on  quickly.  When  he  got 
out  the  old  man  was  fumbling  for  something  outside,  and 
Trenholme  experienced  a  distinct  feeling  of  surprise  when 
he  saw  him  slip  his  feet  into  an  old  pair  of  snow-shoes  and 
go  forth  on  them.  The  old  snow-shoes  had  only  toe-straps 
and  no  other  strings,  and  the  feat  of  walking  securely  upon 
seemed  almost  as  difficult  to  the  young  Englishman  as  walk- 
ing on  the  sea  of  frozen  atoms  without  them;  but  still, 
the  fact  that  the  visitor  wore  them  made  him  seem  more 
companionable. 

Trenholme  supposed  that  the  traveller  was  seeking  some 
dwelling-place,  and  that  he  would  naturally  turn  either  up 
the  rood  to  Turrifs  or  toward  the  hills ;  instead  of  that,  he 
made  u^^an  for  the  birch  wood,  walking  fast  with  strong, 
elastic  stride.  Trenholme  followed  him,  and  they  went 
across  acres  of  billowy  snow. 


CHAPTER  II. 


Why  Alec  Trenholme  followed  the  old  man  toward  the 
wood  he  himself  would  have  found  it  a  little  difficult  to  tell. 
If  this  was  really  Cameron  he  did  not  wish  that  he  should 
escape ;  but,  at  the  same  time,  he  saw  no  means  of  keeping 


i6o 


WHAT  NEC  ESS  IT  V  KNOWS 


[book  II 


him  against  his  will,  unless  he  went  of  his  own  accord  to 
some  place  where  other  men  could  be  called  to  help.  Quite 
apart,  however,  from  the  question  whether  the  stranger  was 
Cameron  or  not,  Trenholme  felt  for  him  a  sort  of  respect 
which  character  alone  inspires,  and  which  character  written 
in  a  man's  appearance  has  often  power  to  inspire  without  a 
word  or  action  to  interpret  it  further.  It  was  because  of 
this  that  curiosity  to  know  where  he  was  going  and  what 
for,  and  a  real  solicitude  as  to  what  would  happen  to  him, 
were  strong  enough  to  lead  the  young  man  on. 

They  who  have  not  walked  upon  snow  by  starlight  do 
not  know,  perhaps,  that  the  chief  difficulty  of  such  progress 
is  that  there  is  no  shadow;  perhaps  they  do  not  even  know 
that  at  all  times  the  difference  between  an  upward  and  a 
downward  slope  is  revealed  to  the  eye  by  light  and  shade. 
The  snow  on  which  the  two  men  were  now  walking  had 
been  left  by  the  wind  with  slight  undulations  of  surface, 
such  as  are  produced  in  a  glassy  sea  by  the  swing  of  a 
gentle  under-swell;  and  Trenholme,  not  sensitive  as  the 
stranger  seemed  to  be  in  the  points  of  his  snow-shoes, 
found  himself  stepping  up  when  he  thought  himself  step- 
ping down,  and  the  reverse.     At  last  he  stumbled  and  fell. 

It  is  not  a  matter  of  ease  to  rise  from  a  bed  which  yields 
endlessly  to  every  pressure  of  arm  or  knee.  Even  a  sea- 
bird,  that  strongest  of  flyers,  finds  it  hard  to  rise  from  any 
but  its  own  element;  and  before  Trenholme  had  managed 
to  spring  up,  as  it  were,  from  nothing,  the  man  in  front 
had  in  some  way  become  aware  of  his  presence  for  the  first 
time,  and  of  his  fall ;  he  turned  and  lifted  him  up  with  a 
strong  hand.  "When  Trenholme  was  walking  again  the 
other  retained  a  firm  hold  of  his  arm,  looked  at  him  earn- 
estly, and  spoke  to  him.  His  words  expressed  a  religious 
idea  which  was  evidently  occupying  his  whole  mind. 

"The  Lord  is  coming  presently  to  set  up  His  kingdom," 
he  said.     "  Are  you  ready  to  meet  Him?  " 

On  Alec  Trenholme  the  effect  of  these  words,  more  unex- 
pected than  any  other  words  could  have  been,  was  first 


CHAP.  Il] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


i6i 


sea- 
any 
aged 
front 
I  first 
Itli  a 
the 
larn- 
lious 


km 


» 


liex- 
irst 


and  chiefly  to  convince  him  that  he  was  dealing  with  a 
witless  person.  Leaving  him  again,  the  speaker  had  hur- 
ried on  in  front,  making  his  way  still  toward  the  wood. 
When  Trenholme  came  up  with  him  the  wanderer  had  evi- 
dently found  the  place  where  he  had  been  before,  for  there 
was  tlie  irregular  circular  track  of  his  former  wandering 
upon  the  snow.  Trenholme  counted  himself  a  fool  to  have 
been  able  before  to  suppose  that  there  was  no  track  because 
he  had  not  seen  it.  But  he  had  hardly  time  for  even  this 
momentary  glance  at  so  small  a  matter,  for  the  old  man 
was  standing  with  face  uplifted  to  the  stars,  and  he  was 
praying  aloud  that  the  Divine  Son  of  Man  would  return  to 
earth  and  set  up  His  kingdom. 

Sometimes  there  was  more  light  upon  the  dark  scene, 
sometimes  less,  for  giant  rays  of  the  northern  light  stalked 
the  sky,  passing  from  it,  coming  again,  giving  light 
faintly. 

Trenholme  felt  an  uncontrollable  excitement  come  over 
him.  His  mind  was  carried  out  of  himself,  not  so  much 
to  the  poor  man  who  was  praying,  as  to  the  Divine  Man  to 
whom  the  supplication  was  addressed;  for  the  voice  of 
prayer  spoke  directly  from  the  heart  of  the  speaker  to  One 
wlio  he  evidently  felt  was  his  friend.  The  conviction  of 
this  other  man  that  he  knew  to  whom  he  was  speaking 
caught  hold  of  Alec  Trenholme's  mind  with  mastering  force; 
he  had  no  conviction  of  his  own ;  he  was  not  at  all  sure,  as 
men  count  certainty,  whether  there  was,  or  was  not,  any 
ear  but  his  own  listening  to  the  other's  words;  but  he  did 
not  notice  his  own  belief  or  unbelief  in  the  matter,  any 
more  than  he  noticed  the  air  between  him  and  the  stars. 
The  colourlessness  of  his  own  mind  took  on  for  the  time 
the  colour  of  the  other's. 

And  the  burden  of  the  prayer  was  this:  Our  Tathc  thy 
kingdom  come.     Even  so,  come.  Lord  Jesus. 

The  hardihood  of  the  prayer  was  astonis^MUj.  '11  ten- 
der arguments  of  love  were  used,  all  reasoj  ible  arguments 
as  of  friend  with  friend  and  man  with  ma^x,  an '  its  length- 


I 


162 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  II 


■ 


ened  pathos  was  such  that  Trenholme  felt  his  heart  torn 
for  pity  within  him. 

"  Look  here !  "  he  said  at  last.  (He  had  been  listening  he 
knew  not  how  long,  but  the  planets  in  the  sky  above  had 
moved  westward.  He  took  hold  of  the  old  man.)  "Look 
here!  He  won't  come  so  that  you  can  see  Him;  but  He's 
here  just  the  same,  you  know." 

The  only  result  was  that  the  old  man  ceased  speaking 
aloud,  and  continued  as  if  in  silent  prayer. 

It  seemed  irreverent  to  interrupt  him.  Trenholme  stood 
again  irresolute,  but  he  knew  that  for  himself  at  least  it 
was  ro.adness  to  stand  longer  withor^-  exercise  in  the  keen 
night. 

"  Come,  Lord  Jesus ! "  cried  the  old  man  again  in  loud 
anguish.  "Come.  The  world  is  needing  only  Thee. 
We  are  so  wicked,  so  foolish,  so  weak — we  need  Thee. 
Come!" 

Whether  or  not  his  companion  had  the  full  use  of  eyes 
and  ears,  Trenholme  was  emboldened  by  the  memory  of  the 
help  he  had  received  on  his  fall  to  believe  that  he  could 
make  himself  heard  and  understood.  He  shouted  as  if  to 
one  deaf:  "The  Lord  is  here.  He  is  with  you  now,  only 
you  can't  see  Him.  You  needn't  stay  here.  I  don't  know 
who  you  are,  but  come  into  my  place  and  get  warmed  and 
fed." 

"How  do  you  know  He  is  here?"  asked  the  old  man, 
shaking  his  head  slowly. 

"Everybody  knows  that." 

"I  can't  hear." 

"Everybody  knows,"  shouted  Trenholme. 

"How  do  you  know?  What  do  you  know?"  asked  the 
other,  shaking  his  head  sorrowfully. 

Trenholme  would  have  given  much,  to  comfort  him.  He 
tried  to  drag  him  by  main  force  in  the  direction  of  the 
house.  The  old  man  yielded  himself  a  few  steps,  then 
drew  back,  asking, 

"Why  do  you  say  He  is  here?" 


I 


CHAP.  Il] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  K'JVOIVS 


163 


man, 


dthe 

He 

the 
I  then 


"Because"  (Trenholme  called  out  his  words  in  the  same 
liigh  key)  "before  He  died,  and  after,  He  said  He  would 
always  be  with  His  servants.  Don't  you  believe  what  He 
said?" 

Again  the  old  man  yielded  a  few  paces,  evidently  listen- 
ing and  hearing  with  difficulty,  perliaps  indeed  only  hear- 
ing one  or  two  words  that  attracted  him, 

"  Did  the  Lord  say  it  to  you  ?  "  he  asked  eagerly. 

"No." 

There  was  blank  disappointment  shown  instantly.  They 
had  come  to  a  standstill  again. 

"Do  you  know  him?"  The  strong  old  face  was  peering 
eagerly  into  his,  as  if  it  had  not  been  dark.  "  Have  you 
heard  his  voice?" 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  Trenholme,  half  angrily. 

Without  another  word  the  old  man  shook  him  off,  and 
turned  once  more  to  the  starry  sky  above. 

"  Lord  Jesus !  "  he  prayed,  "  this  man  has  never  heard  thy 
voice.  They  who  have  heard  Thee  know  thy  voice — they 
know,  0  Lord,  they  know."  He  retraced  all  the  steps  he 
had  taken  with  Trenholme  and  continued  in  prayer. 

After  that,  although  Trenholme  besought  and  commanded, 
and  tried  to  draw  him  both  by  gentleness  and  force,  he 
obtained  no  further  notice.  It  was  not  that  he  was  repulsed, 
but  that  he  met  with  absolute  neglect.  The  old  man  was 
rock-like  in  his  physical  strength. 

Trenholme  looked  round  about,  but  there  was  certainly 
no  help  to  be  obtained.  On  the  one  side  he  saw  the  birch 
Avood  indistinctly;  the  white  trunks  half  vanished  from 
sight  against  the  white  ground,  but  the  brush  of  upper 
branches  hung  like  the  mirage  of  a  forest  between  heaven 
and  earth.  All  round  was  the  wild  region  of  snow.  From 
his  own  small  house  the  lamp  which  he  had  left  on  the  table 
shot  out  a  long  bright  ray  through  a  chink  in  the  frostwork 
on  the  window.  It  occurred  to  him  that  when  he  had  fetched 
down  the  lamp  it  was  probably  this  ray,  sudden  and  unex- 
pected in  such  a  place,  that  had  attracted  his  strange  visitor 


1 64 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[hook  II 


to  his  house.  IIjuI  his  poor  dazed  brain  accepted  it  as  some 
sign  of  the  glorious  appearing  for  wliich  he  waited? 

Trenholme  lookcnl  again  at  his  companion.  It  mattered 
nothing  to  liim  wlio  or  what  he  was;  he  wouhl  have  done 
much  to  still  tliat  pleading  voice  and  pacify  liim,  but  since 
he  could  not  do  this,  he  would  go  for  a  little  while  out  of 
sight  and  hearing.  He  was  fast  growing  numb  Avith  the 
fierce  cold.  He  would  come  back  and  renew  his  care,  but 
just  now  he  would  go  home.  He  walked  fast,  and  gained 
his  own  door  with  blood  that  ran  less  chill. 

He  heaped  his  stove  with  fresh  logs,  and  set  on  food  to 
warm,  in  the  hope  that  the  stranger  might  eventually  par- 
take of  it,  and  then,  opening  the  stove  door  to  get  the  full 
benefit  of  tlie  blaze,  he  sat  down  for  a  little  while  to  warm 
himself.  He  looked  at  his  watch,  as  it  lay  on  the  table, 
with  that  glance  of  interest  wliich  we  cast  at  a  familiar 
thing  which  has  lain  in  tlie  same  jdace  while  our  minds 
have  undergone  commotion  and  change.  INIidnight  had 
passed  since  he  went  out,  and  it  was  now  nearly  two 
o'clock. 

Whether  it  was  that  the  man  with  whom  he  had  been, 
possessed  that  power,  wdiich  great  actors  involuntarily 
possess^  of  imposing  their  own  moods  on  others,  or  whether 
it  was  that,  coming  into  such  strange  companionship  after 
his  long  loneliness,  his  sympathies  were  the  more  easily 
awakened,  Trenholme  was  suffering  from  a  misery  of  pity; 
and  in  pity  for  another  there  weighed  a  self-pity  which  was 
quite  new  to  him.  To  have  seen  the  stalwart  old  man, 
whose  human  needs  were  all  so  evident  to  Trenholme's 
eyes,  but  to  his  own  so  evidently  summed  up  in  that  one 
need  whiuii  was  the  theme  of  the  prayer  he  was  offering  in 
obstinate  agony,  was  an  experience  which  for  the  time 
entirely  robbed  him  of  the  power  of  seeing  the  elements  of 
life  in  that  proportion  to  which  his  mind's  eye  had  grown 
accustomed — that  is,  seeing  the  things  of  religion  as  a 
shadowy  background  for  life's  important  activities. 

The  blazing  logs  through  the  open  stove  door  cast  flicker- 


CHAP.  Il] 


IVHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


165 


man, 


ig  111 
Itime 

bs  of 
rown 

IS   a 

Iker- 


<] 


i 


ing  flamelight  upon  tho  young  man,  wlio  was  restlessly 
wanning  himself,  shifting  his  position  constantly,  as  a  man 
must  who  tries  to  warm  himself  too  hastily.  A  traveller 
read  in  ancient  lore,  coming  suddenly  on  this  cabin  amid 
its  leagues  of  snow,  and  looking  in  to  see  its  light  and 
warmth  and  the  goodly  figure  of  its  occupant,  might  have 
been  tempted  to  think  that  the  place  had  been  raised  by 
some  magician's  wand,  and  would  vanish  again  when  the 
si)ell  was  past.  And  to  Alec  Trenholme,  ji;st  then,  the 
station  to  which  he  was  so  habituated,  the  body  which 
usually  seemed  the  larger  part  of  himself,  might  have  been 
no  more  than  a  thought  or  a  dream,  so  intent  was  he  upon 
another  sort  of  reality.  He  was  regardless  of  it  all,  even 
of  the  heat  that,  at  the  same  time,  scorched  him  and  made 
liim  shiver.  Tie  thought  of  the  words  that  he — he.  Alec 
'rrcnholme — had   lifted   up  his  voice   to  say,  waking   the 

echoes  of  the  snow-muttled  silence  with  proclamation  of 

He  tried  not  to  remember  what  he  had  i^roclaimed,  feeling 
crushed  with  a  new  knowledge  of  his  own  falseness;  and 
when  perforce  the  thought  came  upon  him  of  the  invisible 
Actor  in  the  night's  drama  whose  presence,  whose  action, 
he  had  been  so  strenuously  asserting,  he  was  like  a  man  in 
pain  who  does  not  know  what  remedy  to  try;  and  his  mood 
was  tense,  he  sought  only  relief.  He  essayed  one  thought 
and  another  to  reason  away  the  cloud  that  was  upon  him; 
and  then  he  tried  saying  his  prayers,  which  of  late  had 
fallen  somewhat  into  disuse.  It  was  only  by  way  of  a  try 
to  see  if  it  would  do  any  good;  and  he  did  not  give  himself 
much  time,  for  he  felt  that  he  must  go  out  again  to  try  to 
bring  in  the  old  man. 

]3efore  he  had  put  on  his  fur  cap  a  second  time,  however, 
he  heard  the  whistle  of  the  engine  he  had  been  expecting 
now  for  nearly  twenty-four  hours.  It  came  like  a  sudden 
trumpet-sound  from  the  outside  world  to  call  him  back  to 
his  ordinary  thoughts  and  deeds.  For  the  first  moment  he 
felt  impatient  at  it;  the  second  he  was  glad,  for  there  would 
certainly  be  some  one  with  it  who  could  aid  him  in  using 


1 66 


WHAT  NEC  ESS /TV  KNOWS 


[hook  II 


I 


J  : 


force,  if  necessary,  to  bring  the  old  man  to  spend  the 
remainder  of  the  night  within  doors. 

Trenholme  saw  the  bhiok  and  fiery  monster  come  on  into 
his  dark  and  silent  white  world.  It  shook  a  great  plumd 
of  flaming  smoke  above  its  snorting  head,  and  by  the  liglit 
of  the  blazing  jewel  in  its  front  he  saw  that  tlie  iron  plough 
it  drove  before  it  was  casting  the  snow  in  misty  fountains 
to  right  and  left. 

When  the  engine  stopped,  Trenholme  found  that  there 
was  a  small  car  with  it,  containing  about  twenty  men  sent 
to  dig  out  the  drifts  where  snow  sheds  had  given  way. 
These  were  chiefly  French  Canadians  of  a  rather  low  type. 
The  engine-driver  was  a  Frenchman  too;  but  there  was  a 
brisk  English-speaking  man  whose  business  it  was  to  set 
the  disordered  telegraph  system  to  rights.  He  came  into 
the  station-room  to  test  its  condition  at  this  point  of  the 
route.  As  there  was  a  stove  in  their  car,  only  a  few  of  the 
men  straggled  in  after  him.  At  a  larger  place  the  party 
might  have  been  tempted  to  tarry,  but  here  they  had  no 
thought  of  stopping  an  unnecessary  moment.  Trenholme 
had  no  time  to  lose,  and  yet  he  hardly  knew  how  to  state 
his  case.  He  sought  the  Englishman,  who  was  at  the  little 
telegraph  table.  The  engineer  and  some  others  lounged 
near.  He  began  by  recalling  the  incident  of  the  dead  man's 
disappearance.  Every  one  connected  with  the  railway  in 
those  parts  had  heard  that  story. 

"  And  look  here ! "  said  he,  "  as  far  as  one  can  judge  by 
description,  he  has  come  back  again  here  to-night."  All 
who  could  understand  were  listening  to  him  now.  "  See 
here !  "  he  urged,  addressing  the  brisk  telegraph  man,  "  I'm 
afraid  he  will  freeze  to  death  in  the  snow.  He's  quite 
alive,  you  know— alive  as  you  are  j  but  I  want  help  to  bring 
him  in." 

The  other  was  attending  to  his  work  as  well  as  to  Tren- 
holme.    "Why  can't  he  come  in?" 

"He  won't.  I  think  he's  gone  out  of  his  mind.  He'll 
die  if  he's  left.     It's  a  matter  of  life  or  death,  I  tell  you. 


CHAP,  li] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


167 


in 

by 

All 

jSee 

I'm 

bite 
ling 

[en- 

^'11 
m. 


, 


He's  too  strong  for  me  to  manage  alone.  Someone  must 
come  too." 

The  brisk  man  looked  at  the  engineer,  and  tlie  French 
engineer  looked  at  him. 

"What's  he  doing  out  there?" 

'^  He's  just  out  by  tlie  wood." 

It  ended  in  the  two  men  finding  snow-shoes  and  going 
with  Trenholme  across  tlie  snow. 

They  all  three  peered  through  the  dimness  at  the  space 
between  them  and  the  wood,  and  they  saw  nothing.  They 
retraced  the  snow-slioe  tracks  and  came  to  the  place  where 
the  irregular  circuit  had  been  made  near  tlie  end  of  the 
wood.  Tliere  was  no  one  there.  They  held  up  a  lantern 
and  flashed  it  right  and  left,  they  shouted  and  wandered, 
searching  into  the  edge  of  the  wood.  The  old  man  was  not 
to  be  found. 

"I  dare  say,"  said  the  telegraph  man  to  Trenholme, 
"you'd  do  well  to  get  into  a  place  where  you  don't  live  quite 
so  much  alone.     'T'aint  good  for  you." 

The  whole  search  did  not  take  more  than  twenty  minutes. 
The  railway-men  went  back  at  a  quick  pace.  Trenholme 
went  with  them,  insisting  only  that  they  should  look  at  the 
track  of  the  stranger's  snow-shoes,  and  admit  that  it  was 
not  his  own  track. 

The  French  engineer  was  sufficiently  superstitious  to  lend 
a  half  belief  to  the  idea  that  the  place  was  haunted,  and 
that  was  his  reason  for  haste.  The  electrician  was  only 
sorry  that  so  much  time  had  been  purely  wasted;  that  was 
his  reason.  He  was  a  middle-aged  man,  spare,  quick,  and 
impatient,  but  he  looked  at  Alec  Trenholme  in  the  lighL  of 
the  engine  lamp,  when  they  came  up  to  it,  with  some  kindly 
interest. 

"I  say,"  he  went  on  again,  "don't  you  go  on  staying  here 
alone — a  good-looking  fellow  like  you.  You  don't  look  to 
me  like  a  chap  to  have  fancies  if  you  weren't  mewed  up 
alone." 

As  Trenholme  saw  the  car  carried  from  him,  saw  the 


m. 


\    i:  •: 


. 


I) 


I' 


hi 


168 


IV/ZAT  JSTECESSITY  Kr^OlVS 


[book  II 


faces  and  forins  of  the  men  who  stood  at  its  door  disappear 
in  the  darkness,  and  watched  the  red  light  at  its  back  Diove 
slowly  on,  leaving  a  lengthening  road  of  black  rails  behind 
it,  he  felt  more  mortified  at  the  thought  of  the  telegraph 
man's  compassion  than  he  cared  to  own,  even  to  himself. 

He  went  out  again,  and  hunted  with  a  lantern  till  he 
found  a  track  leading  far  into  the  wood  in  the  opposite 
direction  from  liis  house.  This,  then,  was  the  way  the  old 
man  had  gone.  He  followed  the  track  for  a  mile,  but  never 
came  within  sight  or  sound  of  the  man  who  made  it. 

At  last  it  joined  the  railway  line,  and  where  the  snow 
was  rubbed  smooth  he  could  not  trace  it.  Probably  the 
old  man  had  taken  oif  his  snow-shoes  here,  and  his  light 
moccasins  had  left  no  mark  that  could  be  seen  in  the  night. 


CHAPTER  III. 


For  two  nights  after  that  Alec  Trenholme  kept  his  lamp 
lit  all  night,  placing  it  in  his  window  so  that  all  the  light 
that  could  struggle  through  the  frosted  panes  should  cast 
an  inviting  ray  into  the  night.  He  did  this  in  the  hope 
that  the  old  man  might  still  be  wandering  in  the  neighbour- 
hood; but  it  was  soon  ascertained  that  this  was  not  the 
case ;  the  stranger  had  been  seen  by  no  one  else  in  Turrifs 
Settlement.  Though  it  was  clear,  from  reports  that  came, 
that  he  was  the  ^ame  who  had  visited  other  villages  and 
been  accepted  as  the  missing  Cameron,  nothing  more  was 
heard  of  him,  and  it  seemed  that  he  had  gone  now  off  the 
lines  of  regular  communication — unless,  indeed,  he  had  the 
power  of  appealing  .,nd  disappearing  at  will,  which  ..as 
the  popular  view  of  his  case.  Turrits  Station  had  become 
notorious.  Trenholme  received  jeers  and  gibes  even  by 
telegraph  :^rom  neighbouring  stations.  He  had  given  ac- 
count to  no  one  of  t^^e  midnight  visit,  but  inventive  curi- 
osity !iad  supplied  details  of  a  truly  w  .nderful  nature.     It 


i 


i 


^T!^ 


CHAP.  Ill]  IVHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


169 


and 


was  not  on  this  account  that  he  :jave  up  his  situation  on 
the  line,  but  because  a  new  impulse  had  seized  him,  and  he 
had  no  particular  reason  for  remaining.  He  waited  till  a 
new  caretaker  arrived  from  the  headquarters  of  the  rail- 
way, and  then  set  forth  from  the  station  the  following 
morning  on  foot. 

Turrif  had  been  laid  up  with  some  complaint  for  a  week 
or  two,  and  Alec  went  to  say  good-bye  to  him.  The  roads 
had  been  opened  up  again.  He  had  his  snow-shoes  on  his 
back,  and  some  clothes  in  a  small  pack. 

Turrif's  wife  opened  the  door,  and  Trenholme  disburdened 
himself  and  went  and  sat  by  the  bed.  The  little  children 
were  about,  as  usual,  in  blue  gowns ;  he  had  made  friends 
in  the  house  since  his  first  supper  there,  so  they  stood  near 
now,  and  laughed  at  him  a  great  deal  without  being  afraid. 
In  the  long  large  wooden  room,  the  mother  and  eldest  girl 
pursued  the  housework  of  the  morning  tranquilly.  Turrif 
lay  upon  a  bed  in  one  corner.  The  baby's  cradle,  a  brown 
box  on  rockers,  was  close  to  the  bed,  and  when  the  child 
stirred  the  father  put  out  his  hand  and  rocked  it.  The 
cliild's  head  was  quite  covered  witli  the  clothes,  so  that 
Trenholme  wondered  how  it  could  breathe.  He  sat  by  the 
foot  of  the  bed,  and  Turrif  talked  to  him  in  his  slow 
English. 

''  You  are  wise  to  go — a  young  man  and  genteel-man  like 
you." 

"  I  know  you  think  I  was  a  fool  to  take  the  place,  but  a 
man  might  as  well  earn  his  bread-and-butter  while  he  is 
looking  round  the  country." 

*'  You  have  looked  round  at  this  bit  of  country  for  two 
months  " — with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders.  "  I  should  have 
sought  your  bright  eyes  could  see  all  what  sere  is  to  see  in 
two  days." 

"  You'll  think  me  a  greater  fool  when  you  know  where  I 
am  going." 

''I  hope"  (Turrif  spoke  with  a  shade  of  greater  gravity 
on  his  placid   face) — "  I  hope  sat  you  are  going  to  some 


170 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  n 


I  ill 


ai 


1! 


I  I 


city  where  sere  is  money  to  be  made,  and  where  sere  is 
ladies  and  other  genteel-men  like  you." 

"  I  knew  you  would  think  me  mad.  I'm  going  to  Bates's 
clearing  to  cut  down  his  trees." 

"Why?"     The  word  came  with  a  certain  authority. 

"You  would  almost  be  justified  in  writing  to  the  authori- 
ties to  lock  me  up  in  an  asylum,  wouldn't  you?  But  just 
consider  what  an  awful  condition  of  loneliness  that  poor 
wretch  must  be  in  by  this  time.  You  think  I've  been  more 
alone  than's  good  for  me;  think  of  him,  shut  up  with  an 
old  woman  in  her  dotage.  He  was  awfully  cut  up  about 
this  affair  of  old  Cameron  and  the  girl,  and  he  is  losing  all 
his  winter's  lumbering  for  want  of  3  man.  Now,  there's  a 
fix,  if  you  will,  where  I  say  a  man  is  to  be  pitied." 

"Yes,"  said  Turrif,  gravely,  "it  is  sad;  but  sat  is  liees 
trouble." 

"Look  here:  he's  not  thirty  miles  away,  and  you  and  I 
know  that  if  he  isn't  fit  to  cut  his  tliroat  by  this  time  it 
isn't  for  want  of  trouble  to  make  him,  and  you  say  that  that 
state  of  things  ought  to  be  only  his  own  affair?" 

"Eh?" 

"  Well,  /  say  that  you  and  I,  or  at  least  I,  have  something 
to  do  with  it.  You  know  very  well  I  might  go  round  here 
for  miles,  and  offer  a  h^nidred  pounds,  and  I  couldn't  get  a 
single  man  to  go  and  work  for  Bates;  they're  all  scared. 
Well,  if  they're  scared  of  a  ghost,  let  them  stay  away;  but 
Vni  not  frightened,  and  I  suppose  I  could  learn  to  chop 
down  trees  as  well  as  any  of  them.  He's  offered  good 
wages;  I  can  take  his  wages  and  do  his  work,  and  save  him 
from  turning  into  a  blethering  idiot." 

Probably,  in  his  heat  to  argue,  he  had  spoken  too  quickly 
for  the  Frenchman  to  take  in  all  his  words.  That  his  drift 
was  understood  and  pondered  on  was  evident  from  the  slow 
answer. 

"It  would  be  good  for  Monsieur  Bates,  but  poor  for  you." 

"I'm  not  going  to  turn  my  back  on  this  country  and  leave 
the  fellow  in  that  pickle.  I  should  feel  as  if  his  blood  were 
on  my  head." 


I    ■: 


I: 


CHAP.  Ill] 


IVHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


171 


jckly 
jdrift 
blow 

lou." 
3ave 
/■ere 


"Since?" 

"How  since?" 

"Since  what  day  did  you  have  his  care  on  you?  Last 
time  70U  came  you  did  not  mean  sen  to  help  him." 

It  was  true,  but  so  strongly  did  Trenholme  see  his  point 
that  he  had  not  realised  how  new  was  the  present  aspect  of 
the  case  to  him. 

"Well,"  said  he,  meaning  that  this  was  not  a  matter  of 
importance. 

"But  why?"  said  Turrif  again. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know."  Trenholme  looked  down  at  his 
moccasined  feet.  "  I  thought "  (he  gave  a  laugh  as  if  he 
were  ashamed)  "  I'd  turn  over  a  new  leaf  this  year,  and  do 
something  that's  more  worth  doing.  I  was  well  enough  off 
here  so  far  as  looking  out  for  myself  was  concerned. " 

Turrif  looked  at  him  with  kind  and  serious  disapproval. 
"  And  when  will  you  begin  to  live  se  life  of  a  man  f  " 

"How  do  you  mean — 'a  man'?" 

"When  will  you  make  money  and  get  married?" 

"  Do  you  think  time  is  all  wasted  when  one  isn't  making 
money  and  getting  married?  " 

"For  a  hoy,  no;  for  a  man,  yes." 

Trenholme  rose.  "  Good-bye,  and  thank  you  for  all  your 
hospitality,"  said  he.  "I'll  come  back  in  spring  and  tell 
you  what  I'm  going  to  do  next." 

He  was  moving  out,  when  he  looked  again  at  the  little 
shrine  in  the  middle  of  the  wall,  the  picture  of  the  Vir- 
gin, and,  below,  the  little  altar  shelf,  with  its  hideous 
paper  roses.  He  looked  back  as  it  caught  his  eye,  arrested, 
surprised,  by  a  difference  of  feeling  in  him  towards  it. 
Noticing  the  direction  of  Trenholme's  glance,  the  French- 
man crossed  himself. 

It  was  a  day  of  such  glory  as  ip  only  seen  amid  North- 
ern snow-fields.  Alec  Trenholme  looked  up  into  the  sky, 
and  the  blue  of  other  skies  that  he  remembered  faded  be- 
side it,  as  the  blue  of  violets  fades  beside  the  blue  of  gen- 
tian flowers.     There  was  no  cloud,  no  hint  of  vapour;  the 


172 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KISTOWS 


[book  II 


\ 


I 


I 


sky,  as  one  looked  for  it,  was  not  there,  but  it  was  as  if  the 
sight  leaped  through  the  sunlit  ether,  so  clear  it  was,  and 
saw  the  dark  blue  gulfs  of  space  that  were  beyond  the  reac^i 
of  the  sun's  lighting.  The  earth  was  not  beyond  the  reach 
of  the  sunlight,  and  in  all  that  wide  white  land,  in  mile 
after  mile  of  fields,  of  softened  hillock  and  buried  hollow, 
there  was  not  a  frozen  crystal  that  did  not  thrill  to  i^j 
centre  with  the  sunlight  and  throw  it  back  in  a  soft  glow 
of  myriad  rays. 

Trenholme  retraced  his  steps  on  the  road  from  Turrif's 
door  to  a  point  nearer  his  old  railv/ay-station ;  then  he  put 
on  his  snow-shoes  and  set  out  for  the  gap  in  the  hills  that 
led  to  the  Bates  and  Cameron  clearing.  As  he  mounted 
the  soft  snow  that  was  heaped  by  the  roadside  and  struck 
out  across  the  fields,  his  heart  bounded  with  a  sense  of 
power  and  freedom,  such  as  a  man  might  have  who  found 
means  to  walk  upon  the  ocean.  Little  need  had  he  of  map 
or  guide  to  mark  the  turning  or  crossing  of  his  road ;  the 
gap  in  the  hills  was  clear  to  his  eyes  fifteen  miles  away; 
the  world  was  white,  and  he  strode  across  it.  When  the 
earth  is  made  up  of  pearl-dust  and  sunshine,  and  the  air  is 
pure  as  the  air  of  heaven,  the  heart  of  man  loses  all  sense 
of  effort,  and  action  is  as  spontaneous  as  breath  itself. 
Trenholme  was  half-way  to  the  hills  before  he  felt  that  he 
had  begun  his  day's  journey. 

When  he  got  past  the  unbroken  snow  of  the  farm  lands 
and  the  blueberry  flats,  the  white  surface  was  broken  by 
the  tops  of  brushwood.  He  did  not  take  the  line  of  the 
straight  corduroy  road;  it  was  more  free  and  exciting  to 
make  a  meandering  track  wherever  the  sno\/  lay  sheer  over 
a  chain  of  frozen  pools  that  intersected  the  thickets.  There 
was  no  perceptible  heat  in  the  rays  the  sun  poured  down, 
but  the  light  was  so  great  that  where  the  delicate  skeletons 
of  the  young  trees  were  massed  together  it  was  a  relief  to 
let  the  eye  rest  upon  them. 

That  same  element  of  pleasure,  relief,  was  found  also  in 
the  restful  deadness  of  the  wooded  sides  of  the  hills  when 


f 


CHAP.  Ill] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


173 


Liids 

the 

to 

>ver 

[lere 

Kvn, 

ons 

to 

in 

uen 


lie  came  near  them.  Grey  there  was  of  deciduous  trees  in 
the  basin  of  the  river,  and  dull  green  of  spruce  firs  that 
grew  up  elsewhere.  Intense  light  has  the  effect  of  lack  of 
light,  taking  colour  from  the  landscape.  Even  the  green  of 
the  lir  trees,  as  they  stood  in  full  light  on  the  hill  sum- 
mits, w  as  faded  in  comparison  with  the  blue  beyond. 

This  was  while  he  was  in  the  open  plain;  but  when  he 
walked  into  the  forest,  passing  into  the  gap  in  the  hills, 
all  was  changed.  The  snow,  lightly  shadowed  by  the 
branches  overhead,  was  more  quiet  to  the  sight,  and  where 
his  path  lay  near  fir  trees,  the  snow,  where  fell  their 
heavy  shade,  looked  so  dead  and  cold  and  grey  that  it 
recalled  thoughts  of  night-time,  or  of  storm,  or  of  other 
gloomy  things;  and  this  thought  of  gloom,  which  the  dense 
sliadow  brought,  had  fascination,  because  it  was  such  a 
wondrous  contrast  to  the  rest  of  the  happy  valley,  in  which 
the  sunbeams,  now  aslant,  were  giving  a  golden  tinge  to 
the  icy  facets  of  crags,  to  high-perched  circling  drifts,  to 
the  basin  of  unbroken  snow,  to  the  brown  of  maple  trunks, 
and  to  the  rich  verdure  of  the  very  firs  Avhich  cast  the 
shadow. 

It  was  after  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  when  he  stopped 
his  steady  tramp,  arrested  by  the  sight  of  the  first  living 
things  he  had  seen — a  flock  of  birds  upon  a  wild  vine  that, 
half  snow-covered,  hung  out  the  remnant  of  its  frozen 
berries  in  a  cleft  of  the  hill.  The  birds  did  not  fly  at  his 
approach,  and,  going  nearer  and  nearer  on  the  silent  snow, 
he  at  last  stopped,  taking  in  greedily  the  sight  of  their 
pretty,  fluttering  life.  They  were  rather  large  birds, 
large  as  the  missel  thrush;  they  had  thick  curved  beaks 
and  were  somewhat  heavy  in  form;  but  the  plumage  of  the 
males  was  like  the  rose -tint  of  dawn  or  evening  when  it 
falls  lightly  upon  some  grey  cloud.  They  uttered  no  note, 
but,  busy  with  their  feast,  fluttered  and  hopped  with  soft 
sound  of  wings. 

In  lieu  of  gun  or  net,  Trenholme  broke  a  branch  from 
a  tree  beside  him  and  climbed  nearer  to  the  bi.vds  in  order 


I 


174 


Pi^'I/AT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  II 


\ 


i  \ 


to  strike  one  down  if  possible.  To  his  surprise,  as  he 
advanced  deftly  with  the  weapon,  the  little  creatures  only- 
looked  at  him  with  bright  eyed  interest,  and  made  no 
attempt  to  save  themseb  js.  The  conviction  forced  itself 
upon  him  with  a  certain  awe  that  these  birds  had  never 
seen  a  man  before.  His  arm  dropped  beside  him;  some- 
thing of  that  feeling  which  comes  to  the  explorer  when  he 
thinks  that  he  sets  his  foot  where  man  has  never  trod  came 
to  him  now  as  he  leaned  against  the  snow-bank.  The 
birds,  it  is  true,  had  fluttered  beyond  his  arm's  length, 
but  they  had  no  thouglit  of  leaving  their  food.  Twice 
his  arm  twitched  with  involuntary  impulse  to  raise  the 
stick  and  strike  the  nearest  bird,  and  twice  the  impulse 
failed  him,  till  he  dropped  the  stick. 

The  slight  crust  which  usually  forms  on  snow-banks  had 
broken  with  the  weight  of  his  figure  as  he  leaned  against 
it,  and  he  lay  full  length  against  the  soft  slope,  enjoying 
rest  upon  so  downy  a  couch,  until  the  birds  forgot  him, 
and  then  he  put  out  his  hand  and  grasped  the  nearest, 
hardly  more  to  its  own  surprise  than  to  his.  The  bird 
feigned  dead,  as  frightened  birds  will,  and  when  he  was 
cheated  into  thinking  it  dead,  it  got  away,  and  it  was  only 
by  a  very  quick  movement  that  he  caught  it  again.  He  put 
it  in  a  hanging  pocket  of  his  coat,  and  waited  till  he  could 
catch  a  companion  to  fill  the  opposite  pocket. 

Thus  weighted,  he  continued  his  journey.  It  gave  him 
the  cheerful  feeling  that  a  boy  has  when  choice  marbles  are 
in  his  pocket.  Neither  birds  nor  marbles  under  such  cir- 
cumstances have  absolute  use,  but  then  there  is  always  the 
pleasant  time  ahead  when  it  will  be  suitable  to  take  them 
out  and  look  at  them.  The  man  did  not  finger  his  birds 
as  a  boy  might  have  done  his  marbles,  but  he  did  not  for- 
get them,  and  every  now  and  then  he  lifted  the  flaps  of  the 
baggy  pockets  to  refill  them  with  air. 

He  was  tramping  fast  now  down  the  trough  of  the  little 
valley,  under  trees  that,  though  leafless,  were  thick  enough 
to  shut  out  the  surrounding  landscape.     The  pencils  of  the 


I 


CHAP.  Ill] 


WHAT  NEC  ESS  I  TV  KJVOUS 


175 


the 
lem 
rds 
'or- 
bhe 

tie 

Ihe 


evening  sunlight,  it  is  true,  found  their  way  all  over  the 
rounded  snow -ground,  but  the  sunset  was  hidden  by  the 
branches  about  him,  and  nothing  but  the  snow  and  the  tree 
trunks  was  forced  upon  his  eye,  except  now  and  then  a  bit 
of  blue  seen  through  the  branches — a  blue  that  had  lost 
much  depth  of  colour  with  the  decline  of  day,  and  come 
nearer  earth — a  pale  cold  blue  that  showed  exquisite  ten- 
derness of  contrast  as  seen  tlirough  the  dove-coloured  grey 
of  maple  boughs. 

Where  the  valley  dipped  under  water  and  the  lake  in 
the  midst  of  the  hills  had  its  shore,  Trenholme  came  out 
from  under  the  trees.  Tlie  sun  had  set.  The  plain  of  the 
ice  and  the  snowclad  hills  looked  blue  with  cold — unutter- 
ably cold,  and  dead  as  lightless  snow  looks  when  the  eye  has 
grown  accustomed  to  see  it  animated  with  light.  He  could 
not  see  where,  beneath  the  snow,  the  land  ended  and  the 
ice  began;  but  it  mattered  little.  He  walked  out  on  the 
white  plain  scanning  the  south-eastern  hill-slope  for 
the  house  toward  which  he  intended  to  bend  his  steps. 
He  was  well  out  on  the  lake  before  he  saw  far  enough 
round  the  first  cliff  to  come  in  sight  of  the  log  house  and 
its  clearing,  and  no  sooner  did  he  see  it  than  he  heard  his 
approach,  although  he  was  yet  so  far  away,  heralded  by 
the  barking  of  a  dog.  Before  he  had  gone  much  farther  a 
man  came  forth  with  a  dog  to  meet  him. 

The  two  men  had  seen  one  another  before,  in  the  days 
when  the  neighbourhood  had  turned  out  in  the  fruitless 
search  for  Cameron's  daughter  and  for  Cameron  himself.  At 
that  time  a  fevered  eye  and  haggard  face  had  been  the  signs 
that  Bates  was  taking  his  misfortune  to  heart  j  now  Tren- 
holme looked,  half  expecting  to  see  the  same  tokens  devel- 
oped by  solitude  into  some  demonstration  of  manner;  but 
this  was  not  the  case.  His  flesh  had  certainly  wasted,  and 
his  eye  had  the  excitement  of  expectation  in  it  as  he  met  his 
visitor;  but  the  man  was  the  same  man  still,  with  the  stiff, 
unexpressive  manner  which  was  the  expression  of  his  pride. 

Bates  spoke   of  the  weather,  of  the  news   Trenholme 


176 


IVNAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  II 


T 
III 

i  I 


? 


brought  from  Turrifs  Settlement,  of  the  railway — all 
briefly,  and  without  warmth  of  interest  j  then  he  asked  why 
Trenholme  had  come. 

"  You  haven't  been  able  to  get  any  one  yet  to  fell  your 
trees  for  you?  " 

Bates  replied  in  the  negative. 

"They  think  the  place  is  dangerous,"  said  the  other,  as 
if  giving  information,  although  he  knew  perfectly  that 
Bates  was  aware  of  this.  He  had  grown  a  little  diffident 
in  stating  why  he  had  come. 

"  Fools  they  are !  "  said  Bates,  ill-temperedly. 

Trenholme  said  that  he  was  willing  to  do  the  Avork  Bates 
had  wanted  a  man  for,  at  the  same  wages. 

"It's  rough  work  for  a  gentlemany  young  man  like  you." 

Trenholme's  face  twitched  with  a  peculiar  smile.  "I 
can  handle  an  axe.     I  can  learn  to  fell  trees." 

"I  mean,  the  living  is  rough,  and  all  that;  and  of 
course "  (this  was  added  with  suspicious  caution)  "  it 
wouldn't  be  worth  my  while  to  pay  the  same  wages  to  an 
inexperienced  hand." 

Trenholme  laughed.  This  reception  was  slightly  differ- 
ent from  what  he  had  anticipated.  He  remarked  that  he 
might  be  taken  a  week  on  trial,  and  to  this  liates  agreed, 
not  without  some  further  hesitation.  Trenholme  inquired 
after  the  health  of  the  old  aunt  of  whom  he  had  heard. 

"In  bodily  health,"  said  Bates,  "she  is  well.  You  may 
perhaps  have  heard  that  in  mind  she  has  failed  somewhat." 

The  man's  reserve  was  his  dignity,  and  it  produced  its 
result,  although  obvious  dignity  of  appearance  and  manner 
was  entirely  lacking  to  him. 

The  toothless,  childish  old  man  woman  Trenholme  en- 
countered when  he  entered  the  house  struck  him  as  an  odd 
exaggeration  of  the  report  he  had  just  received.  He  did 
not  feel  at  home  when  he  sat  down  to  eat  the  food  Bates 
set  before  him ;  he  perceived  that  it  was  chiefly  because  in 
a  new  country  hospitality  is  considered  indispensable  to  an 
easy  conscience  that  he  had  received  any  show  of  welcome. 


{ 
i 


CHAP.  IV] 


WHAT  NECE^'SJTV  A'AV IVS 


\77 


Yet  the  lank  brown  hand  that  set  his  mug  beside  hiui 
shook  so  that  some  tea  was  spilt.  ]3ates  was  in  as  dire 
need  of  the  man  he  received  so  unwillingly  as  ever  man  was 
in  need  of  his  fellowman.  It  is  v.iien  the  fetter  of  solitude 
has  begun  to  eat  into  a  man's  flesh  that  he  begins  to  pro- 
claim his  indifference  to  it,  and  the  human  mind  is  never 
in  such  need  of  companionship  as  when  it  shuns  com- 
panions. 

The  two  spent  most  of  the  evening  endeavouring  to  re- 
store to  liveliness  the  birds  that  Trenholme  had  taken  from 
his  jjockets,  and  in  discussing  them.  Bates  produced  a 
very  old  copy  of  a  Halifax  newspaper  which  contained  a 
sonnet  to  this  bird,  in  which  the  local  poet  addressed  it  as 

*'Tlie  Sunset-tinted  grosbeak  of  the  north." 

Trenholme  marvelled  at  his  resources.  Such  newspapers 
as  he  stored  up  were  kept  under  the  cushion  of  the  old 
aunt's  armchair. 

Bates  brought  out  some  frozen  cranberries  for  the  birds. 
They  made  a  rough  coop  and  settled  them  in  it  outside,  in 
lee  of  one  of  the  sheds.  It  is  extraordinary  how  much  time 
and  trouble  people  will  expend  on  such  small  matters  if 
they  just  take  it  into  their  heads  to  do  it. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

There  was  no  very  valuable  timber  on  Bates's  land. 
The  romance  of  the  lumber  trade  had  already  passed  f  ,'om 
this  part  of  the  country,  but  the  farmers  still  spent  their 
winters  in  getting  out  spruce  logs,  which  were  sold  at  the 
nearest  saw-mills.  Bates  and  Cameron  had  possessed 
themselves  of  a  large  portion  of  the  hill  on  which  they  had 
settled,  with  a  view  to  making  money  by  the  trees  in  this 
way — money  that  was  necessary  to  the  household,  frugal 


178 


WHAT  NEC/£S\S/'J'V  KNOWS 


[hook  II 


! 


i 


■W  ^! 


.J! 


as  it  was,  for,  so  far,  all  their  gains  had  boon  spent  in 
ncoossary  improvonionts.  Theirs  had  beiMi  a  far-seeing 
})olicy  that  would  in  the  end  have  brouglit  prosperity,  had 
the  years  of  uninterrupted  toil  on  which  they  calculated 
been  realised. 

It  was  not  until  the  next  day  that  Trenholnie  fully  under- 
stood how  hel[)less  the  poor  Scotchman  really  was  in  his 
present  circumstances.  In  the  early  morning  there  was 
the  live-stock  to  attend  to,  which  took  him  tlie  more  time 
because  he  was  not  in  strong  health;  and  when  tliat  was 
done  it  seemed  that  there  was  nuudi  ado  in  the  house  before 
the  old  woman  would  sit  down  jjcace fully  for  the  day.  lie 
apologised  to  Trenholme  for  his  liouse-work  by  explaining 
that  she  was  restless  and  uneasy  all  day  unless  the  place 
was  somewhat  as  she  had  been  accustomed  to  see  it;  he 
drudged  to  anpease  her,  and  when  at  last  he  could  follow 
to  the  bush,  whither  he  had  sent  Trenholme,  it  transpired 
that  he  dared  not  leave  her  more  tlian  an  hour  or  two  alone, 
for  fear  she  slioidd  do  herself  a  mischief  with  the  fire.  In 
the  bush  it  was  obvious  how  pitifully  small  was  the  amount 
of  work  accomplished.  Many  trees  had  been  felled  before 
Cameron's  death;  but  they  still  had  to  be  lopped  and 
squared,  cut  into  twelve-foot  lengths,  dragged  by  an  ox  to 
the  log-slide,  and  passed  down  on  to  the  ice  of  the  lake. 
Part  of  the  work  recpiired  two  labourers ;  only  a  small  part 
of  what  could  be  done  single-handed  had  been  accom- 
plished; and  Trenholme  strongly  suspected  that  moonlight 
nights  had  been  given  to  this,  while  the  old  woman  slept. 

It  is  well  known  that  no  line  can  be  drawn  between 
labour  and  play ;  it  is  quite  as  much  fun  making  an  ox  pull 
a  log  down  a  woodland  path  as  playing  at  polo,  if  one  will 
only  admit  it,  especially  when  novelty  acts  as  playmate. 
Most  healthy  men  find  this  fascination  hidden  in  labour, 
provided  it  only  be  undertaken  at  their  own  bidding, 
although  few  have  the  grace  to  find  it  when  necessity  com- 
pels to  the  task.  Alec  Trenholme  found  the  new  form  of 
labour  to  which  he  had  bidden  himself  toilsome  and  delight- 


CHAP.  IV] 


IVIIAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


'79 


light 

?pt. 

Iveen 

Ipiill 

Iwill 

late. 

lour, 

ing, 

lom- 

11  of 

rht- 


ful;  liko  a  true  son  of  Adam,  ho  was  iiioro  conscious  of  his 
toil  than  of  his  delight — still  both  were  there;  there  was 
physical  inspiration  in  the  light  of  the  snow,  the  keen  still 
air,  and  the  sweet  smell  of  the  lumber.  So  he  grew  more 
expert,  and  the  days  went  i)ast,  hardly  distinguished  from 
one  another,  so  entire  was  the  unconsciousness  of  the 
slumber  between  tliem. 

lie  had  not  come  without  some  sensation  of  romance  in 
his  kniglit-errantry.  Hates  was  the  centre,  the  kernel  as 
it  were,  of  a  wild  story  that  was  not  yet  explained.  Turrif 
had  disbelieved  the  details  Saul  had  given  of  Bates's 
cruelty  to  Cameron's  daughter,  and  Trenholme  had  acc(^i>ted 
Turrif 's  judgment;  but  in  the  popular  judgment,  if  Came- 
ron's rising  was  not  a  sufficient  proof  of  Bates's  guilt,  the 
undoubted  disappearance  of  the  daughter  was.  Whatever 
had  been  his  fault,  rough  justice  and  superstitious  fear  had 
imposed  on  Bates  a  term  of  solitary  confinement  and  penal 
servitude  which  so  far  he  had  accepted  without  explanation 
or  complaint.  He  still  expressed  no  satisfaction  at  Tren- 
lioline's  arrival  that  would  have  been  a  comment  on  his 
own  hard  case  and  a  confession  of  his  need.  Yet,  on  the 
whole,  Trenholme's  interest  in  him  would  have  been 
heightened  rather  than  decreased  by  a  nearer  view  of  his 
monotonous  life  and  his  dry  reserve,  had  it  not  been  that 
the  man  waL  to  the  last  degree  contentious  and  difficult  to 
deal  with. 

Taking  for  granted  that  Trenholme  was  of  gentle  extrac- 
tion, he  treated  him  with  the  generosity  of  pride  in  the 
matter  of  rations;  but  he  assumed  airs  of  a  testy  authority 
which  were  in  exact  proportion  to  his  own  feeling  of  physi- 
cal and  social  inferiority.  Seen  truly,  there  was  a  pathos 
in  this,  for  it  was  a  weak  man's  way  of  trying  to  be  man- 
ful ;  but  his  new  labourer  could  not  be  expected  to  see  it  in 
that  light.  Then,  too,  on  all  impersonal  subjects  of  con- 
versation which  arose,  it  was  the  nature  of  Bates  to  contra- 
dict and  argue ;  whereas  Trenholme,  who  had  little  capacity 
for  reasonable  argument,  usually  dealt  with  contradiction 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


1.1 


IttlM 

■50     ■^~ 

z  1^ 


11.25  i  1.4 


■  25 

1.6 


<^ 


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> 


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><^ 


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:\ 


\ 


<«>  \  ^\ 


1?V>^ 


¥     ^^ 


,#3 


i8o 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  II 


as  a  pot  of  gunpowder  deals  with  an  intruding  spark.  As 
regarded  the  personal  subject  of  his  own  misfortune — a 
subject  on  which  Trenholine  felt  he  had  a  certain  right 
to  receive  confidence — Bates's  demeanour  was  like  an  iron 
mask. 

Bates  scorned  the  idea,  which  Turrif  had  always  held, 
that  Cameron  had  never  really  died;  he  vowed,  as  before, 
that  the  box  he  had  sent  in  Saul's  cart  had  contained  noth- 
ing but  a  dead  body;  he  would  hear  no  description  of  the 
old  man  who,  it  would  seem,  had  usurped  Cameron's  name ; 
he  repeated  stolidly  that  Saul  had  put  his  charge  into  some 
shallow  grave  in  the  forest,  and  hoaxed  Trenholme,  with 
the  help  of  an  accomplice ;  and  he  did  not  scruple  to  hint 
that  if  Trenholme  had  not  been  a  coward  he  would  have 
seized  the  culprit,  and  so  obviated  further  mystery  and  after 
difficur  ies.  There  was  enough  truth  in  this  view  of  the  case 
to  make  it  very  insulting  to  Trenholme.  But  Bates  did  not 
seem  to  cherish  anger  for  that  part  of  his  trouble  that  had 
been  caused  by  this  defect;  rather  he  showed  an  annoying 
indifference  to  the  whole  affair.  He  had  done  what  he  could 
to  bary  his  late  partner  decently ;  he  neither  expressed  nor 
appeared  to  experience  further  emotion  concerning  his  fate. 

When  a  man  has  set  himself  to  anything,  he  generally 
sticks  to  it,  for  a  time  at  least ;  this  seemed  to  be  the  largest 
reason  that  Trenholme  had  the  first  four  weeks  for  remain- 
ing where  he  was.  At  any  rate,  he  did  remain;  and  from 
these  unpromising  materials,  circumstance,  as  is  often  the 
case,  beat  out  a  rough  sort  of  friendship  between  the  two 
men.  The  fact  that  Bates  was  a  partial  wreck,  that  the 
man's  nerve  and  strength  in  him  were  to  some  extent  gone, 
bred  in  Trenholme  the  gallantry  of  the  strong  toward  the 
weak — a  gallantry  which  was  kept  from  rearing  into  self- 
conscious  virtue  by  the  superiority  of  Bates's  reasoning 
powers,  which  always  gave  him  a  certain  amount  of  real 
authority.     Slowly  they  began  to  be  more  confidential. 

"It's  no  place  for  a  young  man  like  you  to  be  here," 
Bates  observed  with  disfavoar. 


CHAP.  IV] 


WHAT  NEC  ESS /TV  KNOWS 


i8i 


It  was  Sunday.  The  two  were  sitting  in  front  of  the 
house  in  the  sunshine,  not  because  the  sun  was  warm,  but 
because  it  was  bright;  dressed,  as  they  were,  in  many  plies 
of  clothes,  they  did  not  feel  the  cold.  In  flat,  irregular 
shape  the  white  lake  lay  beneath  their  hill.  On  the  oppo- 
site heights  the  spruce-trees  stood  up  clear  and  green,  as 
perfect  often  in  shape  as  yews  that  are  cut  into  old-fashioned 
cones. 

"  I  was  told  that  about  the  last  place  I  was  in,  and  the 
place  before  too,"  Trenholme  laughed.  He  did  not  seem  to 
take  his  own  words  much  to  heart. 

"Well,  the  station  certainly  wasn't  much  of  a  business," 
assented  Bates;  "and,  if  it's  not  rude  to  ask,  where  were  ye 
before?" 

"  Before  that — why,  I  was  just  going  to  follow  my  own 
trade  in  a  place  '■here  there  was  a  splendid  opening  for  me ; 
but  my  own  brother  put  a  stop  to  that.  He  said  it  was  no 
fit  position  for  a  young  man  like  me.  My  brother's  a  fine 
fellow,"  the  young  man  sneered,  but  not  bitterly. 

"He  ought  to  be,"  said  Bates,  surveying  the  sample  of 
the  family  before  him  rather  with  a  glance  of  just  criticism 
than  of  admiration.     "  What's  your  calling,  then?  " 

Alec  pulled  his  mitts  out  of  his  pocket  and  slapped  his 
moccasins  with  them  to  strike  off  the  melting  snow.  "  What 
do  you  think  it  is,  now?" 

Bates  eyed  him  with  some  interest  in  the  challenge.  "  I 
don't  know,"  he  said  at  last.  "Why  didn't  your  brother 
want  ye  to  do  it?" 

"  'Twasn't  grand  enough.  I  came  out  naturally  thinking 
I'd  set  up  near  my  brother;  but,  well,  I  found  he'd  grown 
a  very  fine  gentleman — all  honour  to  him  for  it!  He's  a 
good  fellow."     There  was  no  sneer  just  now. 

Bates  sat  subjecting  all  he  knew  of  Alec  to  a  process  of 
consideration.  The  result  was  not  a  guess;  it  was  not  in 
him  to  hazard  anything,  even  a  guess. 

"  What  does  your  brother  do?  " 

"Clergyman,  and  he  has  a  school." 


I 


182 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  II 


1  ;i 


i! 


"Where?" 

"  Chellaston,  on  the  Grand  Trunk." 

"Never  heard  of  it.     Is  it  a  growing  place?" 

"It's  thriving  along  now.    It  was  just  right  for  my  busi- 


» 


ness. 

"  Did  the  clergyman  think  your  business  was  wrong?  " 

The  young  man  laughed  as  a  man  laughs  who  knows  the 
answer  to  an  amusing  riddle  and  sees  his  neighbour's  mental 
floundering.  "  He  admits  that  it's  an  honest  and  respectable 
line  of  life." 

"Did  ye  give  in,  then?" 

"  I  took  a  year  to  think  over  it.     I'm  doing  that  now." 

"Thinking?" 

"Yes." 

"I've  not  observed  ye  spending  much  time  in  medita- 
tion." 

The  young  man  looked  off  across  the  basin  of  the  frozen 
lake.  What  is  more  changeful  than  the  blue  of  the  sky? 
To-day  the  far  firmament  looked  opaque,  an  even,  light 
blue,  as  if  it  were  made  of  painted  china.  The  blue  of  Alec 
Trenholme's  eyes  was  very  much  like  the  sky;  sometimes 
it  was  deep  and  dark,  sometimes  it  was  a  shadowy  grey, 
sometimes  it  was  hard  and  metallic.  A  woman  having  to 
deal  with  him  would  probably  have  imagined  that  something 
of  his  inward  mood  was  to  be  read  in  these  changes ;  but, 
indeed,  they  were  owing  solely  to  those  causes  which  change 
the  face  of  the  sky — degrees  of  light  and  the  position  of 
that  light.  As  for  Bates,  he  did  not  even  know  that  his 
companion  had  blue  eyes ;  he  only  knew  in  a  general  way 
that  he  was  a  strong,  good-looking  fellow,  whose  ligure,  even 
under  the  bulgy  shapes  of  multiplied  garments,  managed  to 
give  suggestion  of  that  indefinite  thing  we  call  style.  He 
himself  felt  rather  thinner,  weaker,  more  rusty  in  knowledge 
of  the  world,  more  shapeless  as  to  apparel,  than  he  would 
have  done  had  he  sat  alone. 

After  a  minute  or  two  he  said,  "What's  your  trade?" 

Trenholme,  sitting  there  in  the  clear  light,  would  have 


CHAP.  IV] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


183 


blushed  as  he  answered  had  his  face  not  been  too  much 
weathered  to  admit  of  change  of  colour.  He  went  through 
that  momentary  change  of  feeling  that  we  connect  with 
blushes.  He  had  been  perfectly  conscious  that  this  ques- 
tion was  coming,  and  perfectly  conscious,  too,  that  when  he 
answered  it  he  would  fall  in  Bates's  estimation,  that  his 
prestige  would  be  gone.  He  thought  he  did  not  mind  it, 
but  he  did. 

"Butcher,"  he  said. 

"  Ye're  not  in  earnest?"  said  Bates,  with  animosity. 

"Upon  my  word.*' 

"  Ye  don't  look  like  that " — with  disappointment. 

"  Look  like  what?" — fiercely — "  What  would  you  have  me 
look  like?  My  father  was  as  good-looking  a  man  as  you'd 
see  in  the  three  kingdoms,  and  as  good  a  butcher,  too.  He 
got  rich,  had  three  shops,  and  he  sent  us  boys  to  the  best 
school  he  could  find.  He'd  have  set  me  up  in  any  business 
I  liked;  if  I  chose  his  it  was  because — I  did  choose  it." 

He  was  annoyed  at  Bates's  open  regret,  just  as  we  are 
constantly  more  annoyed  at  fresh  evidence  of  a  spirit  we 
know  to  be  in  a  man  than  with  the  demonstration  of  some 
unexpected  fault,  because  we  realise  the  trait  we  have 
fathomed  and  see  how  poor  it  is. 

"  How  did  your  brother  come  to  be  a  minister?  " 

"He's  a  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England" — with 
loftiness. 

"Well,  that's  more  of  a  thing  than  a  minister;  how  did 
he  come  by  it?" 

"He  was  clever,  and  father  was  able  to  send  him  to 
Oxford.  He  was  a  good  deal  older  than  I  was.  I  suppose 
he  took  to  the  Church  because  he  thought  it  his  duty." 

"  And  now  that  he's  out  here  he  wants  to  sink  the  shop?  " 

"  Oh,  as  to  that " — coldly — "  when  he  was  quite  young,  in 
England,  he  got  in  with  swells.  He's  tremendously  clever. 
There  were  men  in  England  that  thought  no  end  of  him." 

"Did  he  lie  low  about  the  shop  there?" 

" I  don't  know  " — shortly — "  I  was  at  school  then." 


M!i 


I       ':•■- 


184 


PV//AT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  II 


Bates,  perceiving  that  his  questions  were  considered  vastly 
offensive,  desisted,  but  not  with  that  respectfulness  of  mind 
that  he  would  have  had  had  Alec's  father  been  a  clergyman 
as  well  as  his  brother.  Bates's  feeling  in  this  matter  was 
what  it  was  by  inheritance,  exactly  as  was  the  shape  of  his 
nose  or  the  length  of  his  limbs;  it  required  no  exercise  of 
thought  on  his  part  to  relegate  Alec  Trenholme  to  a  place  of 
less  consequence. 

Trenholme  assuaged  his  own  ill-temper  by  going  to  take 
out  his  pink  and  grey  grosbeaks  and  give  them  exercise. 
He  was  debating  in  his  mind  whether  they  were  suffering 
from  confinement  or  not — a  question  which  the  deportment 
of  the  birds  never  enabled  him  to  solve  completely — when 
Bates  wandered  round  beside  him  again,  and  betrayed  that 
his  mind  was  still  upon  the  subject  of  their  conversation. 

"Ye  know,"  he  began,  with  the  deliberate  interest  of  a 
Scotchman  in  an  argument,  "  I've  been  thinking  on  it,  and 
I'm  thinking  your  brother's  in  the  right  of  it." 

"You  do!"  The  words  had  thunderous  suggestion  of 
rising  wrath. 

"Well,"  said  the  other  again,  "ye're  hard  to  please;  ye 
were  vexed  a  while  since  because  ye  thought  I  was  criticis- 
ing him  for  lying  low." 

The  answer  to  this  consisted  in  threats  thrown  out  at 
any  man  who  took  upon  himself  to  criticise  his  brother. 

"  And  now,  when  I  tell  ye  I'm  thinking  he's  in  the  right 
of  it,  ye're  vexed  again.  Now,  I'll  tell  ye :  ye  don't  like 
to  think  the  Rev.  Mr.  Trenholme's  in  the  right,  for  that 
puts  ye  in  the  wrong;  but  ye  don't  like  me  to  think  he's  in 
the  wrong,  because  he's  your  brother.  Well,  it's  natural! 
but  just  let  us  discuss  the  matter.  Now,  ye'U  agree  with 
me  it's  a  man's  duty  to  rise  in  the  world  if  he  can." 

Upon  which  he  was  told,  in  a  paraphrase,  to  mind  his 
own  business. 


CHAP.  V] 


IVHAT  NECESSITY  KNOiVS 


i8s 


CHAPTER  V. 


It  was  a  delightful  proof  of  the  blessed  elasticity  of 
inconsistency  in  human  lives,  a  proof  also  that  there  was 
in  these  two  men  more  of  good  than  of  evil,  that  that  same 
evening,  when  the  lamp  was  lit,  they  discussed  the  prob- 
lem that  had  been  mooted  in  the  afternoon  with  a  fair 
amount  of  good  temper.  As  they  sat  elbowing  the  deal 
table,  sheets  of  old  newspapers  under  their  inspection, 
Trenholme  told  his  story  more  soberly.  He  told  it  roughly, 
emphasising  detail,  slighting  important  matter,  as  men 
tell  stories  who  see  them  too  near  to  get  the  just  propor- 
tion; but  out  of  his  words  Bates  had  wit  to  glean  the  truth. 
It  seemed  that  his  father  had  been  a  warm-hearted  man, 
with  something  superior  in  his  mental  qualities  and  ac- 
quirements. Having  made  a  moderate  fortune,  he  had 
liberally  educated  his  sons.  There  is  nothing  in  which 
families  differ  more  by  nature  than  in  the  qualities  of 
heart  which  bind  them  together  or  easily  release  them  from 
the  bonds  of  kinship.  The  members  of  this  small  family 
had  that  in  them  which  held  them  together  in  spite  of  the 
pulling  of  circumstance;  for  although  the  elder  son  had 
come  on  the  stage  of  manhood  ten  years  before  the 
younger,  although  he  had  had  talents  that  advanced  him 
among  scholarly  men,  and  had  been  quickly  taken  from  his 
first  curacy  to  fill  a  superior  position  in  a  colony,  he  had 
never  abated  an  affectionate  correspondence  with  Alec,  and 
had  remained  the  hero  of  his  young  brother's  imagination. 
This  younger  son,  not  having  the  same  literary  tastes,  and 
having  possibly  a  softer  heart,  gratified  his  father  by  going 
into  business  with  him ;  but  at  that  good  man's  death  he 
had  had  sufficient  enterprise,  sufficient  distaste,  possibly, 
for  his  English  position,  to  sell  the  business  that  was  left 
in  his  hands,  and  affection  drew  him,  as  a  loadstone  a  mag- 
net, to  his  brother's   neighbourhood.     He  brought  with 


i86 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  II 


!  I 


I 


him  securities  of  the  small  fortune  they  were  to  divide 
between  them,  and  expected  nothing  but  happiness  in  the 
meeting  and  prosperity  in  his  future  career.  Unfortunately, 
a  cause  of  dispute  between  the  two  brothers  arose  instantly 
on  Alec's  arrival :  there  was  an  exceptionally  good  opening 
in  Chellaston  for  one  of  Alec's  calling;  the  brothers  took 
different  views  concerning  that  calling;  they  had  quarrelled 
with  all  the  fire  of  warm  natures,  and  were  parted  almost 
as  soon  as  met. 

"  And  did  ye  think  it  would  be  pleasing  to  your  brother 
to  have  a  tradesman  of  the  same  name  and  blood  as  him- 
self in  the  same  place?"  asked  Bates  with  lack  of  tolera- 
tion in  his  tone. 

"That's  all  very  fine!" — scornfully.  "You  know  as 
well  as  I  do  that  my  lord  and  my  gentleman  come  out  to 
this  country  to  do  what  farm-hands  and  cattle-men  would 
hardly  be  paid  to  do  at  home " 

"When  they've  ruined  themselves  first,  but  not  till 
then,"  Bates  put  in. 

"  And  besides,  old  Robert  sets  up  to  be  a  saint.  I  didn't 
suppose  he'd  look  upon  things  in  the  vulgar  way."  This 
reflection  was  cast  on  Bates  as  one  of  a  class.  "Was  I 
likely  to  suppose  he'd  think  that  to  kick  one's  heels  on  an 
office  stool  was  finer  than  honest  labour,  or  that  my  partic- 
ular kind  of  labour  had  something  more  objectionable  about 
it  than  any  other?  In  old  times  it  was  the  most  honoura- 
ble office  there  was.  Look  at  the  priests  of  the  Old  Testa- 
ment !     Bead  Homer !  " 

"I  don't  know  that  I'm  understanding  ye  about  Homer." 

"  Why,  hear  him  tell  the  way  the  animals  were  cut  up, 
and  the  number  of  them — yards  and  yards  of  it." 

"But  in  the  Bible  the  animals  were  used  for  sacrifice; 
that's  very  different."  Bates  said  this,  but  felt  that  a 
point  had  been  scored  against  him  in  the  poetry  of  Homer; 
the  Old  Testament  was  primeval,  but  Homer,  in  spite  of 
ancient  date,  seemed  to  bring  with  him  the  authority  of 
modern  culture. 


wJf 


CHAP.  V] 


IVHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


187 


"If  they  were,  the  people  feasted  upon  them  all  the 
sa^ne,  and  the  office  of  preparing  them  was  the  most  hon- 
ourable. I'm  not  claiming  to  be  a  priest  (I  leave  that  to 
my  respected  brother) ;  I  claim  my  right  in  a  new  country, 
where  Adam  has  to  delve  again,  to  be  a  butcher  and  a  gen- 
tleman."   All  his  words  were  hot  and  hasty. 

"But  ye  see,"  said  Bates,  "in  the  towns  here,  things  are 
beginning  to  regulate  themselves  much  in  the  shape  they 
take  in  the  old  country." 

"My  brother  cares  more  what  people  think  than  I  do." 

"And  a  verra  good  thing  too;  for  with  the  majority  there 
is  wisdom,"  put  in  Bates,  keen  and  contentious. 

"You  think  so,  do  you?" — with  sarcasm. 

"Ye  must  remember  ye're  young  yet;  your  brother  has 
seen  more  of  the  world " 

Now  Alec  Trenholme  had  had  no  intention  of  telling 
what,  to  his  mind,  was  the  worst  of  his  brother's  conduct, 
but  here  he  slapped  the  table  and  burst  out  angrily : 

"  And  I  tell  you  he  believes  as  I  do,  but  he  hasn't  pluck 
to  act  up  to  it.  He's  not  even  told  one  of  his  fine  friends 
what  his  brother  does;  he  says  it's  for  the  sake  of  his 
school.  He's  living  a  lie  for  his  own  pride.  He's  got 
himself  made  master  of  a  college,  fine  as  a  fiddle,  and  he 
cares  more  about  that  than  about  his  brother.  With  all 
his  prayers  and  his  sermons  in  church  every  Sunday,  he'd 
let  me  go  to  the  dogs  rather  than  live  out  the  truth.  He 
thinks  I've  gone  to  the  devil  now,  because  I  left  him  in  a 
rage,  and  I  told  him  I'd  go  and  learn  to  spend  my  money, 
and  drink,  and  swear,  and  gamble  as  a  gentleman  should. 
He  thinks  I've  done  it,  and  he  writes  and  implores  me,  by 
all  that's  holy,  to  forsake  evil  courses;  but  never  a  word 
like  'Come  back  and  set  up  your  shop,  old  fellow,  and  I'll 
be  your  customer.'     That's  the  amount  of  his  religion." 

"It  was  a  hard  choice  ye  put  upon  him,"  said  Bates, 
solemnly. 

"You  think  it  was?  Well!"  The  young  man  gave  a 
boisterous  laugh. 


i88 


WHAT  NEC  ESS/TV  KNOWS 


[book  II 


I 


"For,  in  the  first  placo,  it's  not  his  fault,  but  your  own 
entirely,  if  ye  go  to  the  bad." 

"I've  not  gone  to  the  bad;  but  if  I  had,  if  I'd  gone 
straight  there,  it  would  have  been  his  fault." 

"'Twould  just  have  been  your  own.  There's  just  one 
man  that's  responsible  for  your  actions,. and  that's  your- 
self. If  your  brother  was  a  complete  blackguard,  instead 
of  a  good  man,  that's  no  excuse  for  you.  God  never  put 
any  man  into  this  world  and  said,  'Be  good  if  some  other 
man  is.' " 

"When  a  man  sets  up  to  preach,  and  then  throws  away 
his  influence  over  his  own  brother  for  a  little  finery  opposi- 
tion, it's  more  than  being  a  blackguard.  What  does  a  man 
mean  by  standing  up  to  preach  if  he  doesn't  mean  that  he's 
taking  some  responsibility  for  other  people?" 

"  Well,  but  it  wasn't  he  that  threw  away  his  influence 
over  you;  it  was  you.  He  never  said 'Don't  be  influenced 
any  more  by  me.'  If  ye  thought  he  was  an  angel  before 
then,  more  fool  ye  were,  for  no  man  is  an  angel.  What 
business  had  you  to  make  all  the  influence  of  his  godly  life 
condeetion  on  his  doing  right,  or  what  you  thought  right, 
on  a  certain  point  of  opinion  ?  " 

"He's  living  a  lie,  I  tell  you." 

"I'm  not  sure  but  he's  right  not  to  have  blazoned  it. 
I'm  not  sure  but  I'd  have  done  the  same  myself." 

"  Well,  as  you  just  remarked,  men  are  not  angels.  That 
you  would  have  done  it  doesn't  prove  anything." 

Next  morning  Trenholme,  whose  half-awaked  mind  had 
not  yet  recurred  to  the  night's  dispute,  stepped  out  of  the 
house  into  a  white  morning  fog,  not  uncommon  in  fierce 
weather  when  holes  for  fishing  had  been  made  in  the  ice  of 
the  lake.  The  air,  seemingly  as  dry  as  smoke,  but  keen 
and  sweet,  was  almost  opaque,  like  an  atmosphere  of  white 
porcelain,  if  such  might  be.  The  sun,  like  a  scarlet  ball, 
was  just  appearing;  it  might  have  been  near,  it  might  have 
been  far;  no  prospect  was  seen  to  mark  the  distance.  Tren- 
holme was  walking  round  by  the  white  snow  path,  hardly 


IHi 


CHAP.  V] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


189 


discerning  the  ox-shed  to  which  he  was  bound,  when  he 
suchlenly  came  upon  the  dark  figure  of  Bates,  who  was 
pitoliing  hay  for  his  cattle.  Bates  let  down  his  fork  and 
stood  in  his  path. 

"For  God's  sake,  Mr.  Trenholme,"  said  he,  "let  your 
brother  know  whe^'e  you  are." 

Trenholme  started:  Bates's  figure  stood  not  unlike  some 
gnarled  thorn  that  might  have  appeared  to  take  hunum 
shape  in  the  mist. 

"  For  God's  sake,  man,  write !  If  ye  only  knew  what  it 
was  to  feel  the  weight  of  another  soul  on  ye,  and  one  that 
ye  had  a  caring  fori  Ye're  easy  angered  yourself;  ye 
might  .as  easy  anger  another,  almost  without  knowing  it; 
and  if  he  or  she  was  to  go  ye  didn't  know  where,  or  per- 
haps die,  be  sure  ye  would  blame  yourself  without  heeding 
their  blame." 

Bates's  voice  was  trembling.  The  solemnity  of  his  mien 
and  the  feminine  pronoun  he  had  let  slip  revealed  to  Tren- 
holme the  direction  his  thoughts  had  taken. 

He  went  on,  holding  out  an  arm,  as  though  by  the  ges- 
ture swearing  to  his  own  transgression :  "  I  counted  myself 
a  good  man,  and  I'll  not  say  now  but  I  did  more  for  " — some 
name  died  upon  his  lips — "than  one  man  in  a  hundred 
would  have  done;  but  in  my  folly  I  angered  her,  and  Avhen 
I'd  have  given  my  life  ten  times  over " 

This,  then,  was  the  sorrow  that  dogged  his  life.  Tren- 
holme knew,  without  more  ado,  that  Bates  loved  the  lost 
girl,  that  it  was  her  loss  that  outweighed  all  other  misfor- 
tune.    He  felt  a  great  compassion:  he  said  impatiently: 

"There's  no  use  trying  to  interfere  between  brothers. 
You  can't  see  the  thing  as  I  see  it.     Let's  leave  it." 

"Ay,  leave  it,"  cried  the  other,  voice  and  limb  shaking, 
"  and  life  is  short,  and  the  time  to  die  is  every  time,  and 
if  some  accident  is  to  sweep  us  away  to-night,  who's  to  tell 
him  that  your  death,  and  your  soul  too,  isn't  on  his  head?  " 

"  Bother  my  soul !  "  said  Alec ;  and  yet  there  was  a  cer- 
tain courtesy  expressed  in  the  gentler  tone  in  which  he 


'   II  I 


190 


WHAT  NI'ICESS/TV  KNOWS 


[hook  II 


w 


spoko,  and  what  he  thouglit  was,  "  How  much  he  must  have 
loved  her! " 

When  the  io^  had  "anished,  leaving  daylight  absolute, 
this  scene  of  the  morning  seemed  like  a  dream,  and  in  the 
evening,  as  much  from  curiosity  to  see  if  he  could  revive 
its  essence  again  as  from  a  friendly  desire  to  relieve  the 
overcharged  heart  of  his  comrade,  he  said : 

"Tell  me  about  her,  Bates.     What  was  she  like?" 

Bates  responded  to  the  question  like  a  man  whose  heart 
is  beating  against  the  walls  of  his  silence  as  a  bird  beats 
upon  its  cage.  He  spoke  a  few  words,  hardly  noticing  that 
he  was  telling  his  memories;  then  the  mask  of  his  self- 
bound  habit  was  resumed;  then  again  the  dignity  of  his 
sorrow  found  some  expression;  and  still  again  he  would 
retire  into  dumbness,  setting  the  questioner  aside  slight- 
ingly ;  and  when  he  had  forgotten  that  he  had  drawn  back 
within  himself  some  further  revealing  would  come  from 
him.  It  was  little  that  he  said  in  all,  but  language  that 
has  been  fused  in  the  furnace  of  so  strong  a  sorrow  and 
silence  has  little  of  the  dross  of  common  speech — the  un- 
meaning, misleading,  unnecessary  elements:  his  veritable 
memory  and  thought  and  feeling  were  painted  by  his 
meagre  tale. 

Was  that  tale  true?  John  Bates  would  have  thought  it 
a  great  sin  to  deceive  himself  or  another,  and  yet,  such  was 
the  power  of  his  love,  blown  to  white  heat  by  the  breath  of 
regret  and  purified,  that  when  he  spoke  of  the  incidents  of 
Sissy's  childhood,  of  the  cleverness  she  displayed  when  he 
taught  her,  of  her  growth  until  the  day  in  which  he  had 
offended  her  by  speaking  of  marriage,  when  he  told  of  her 
tears,  and  prayers,  and  anger,  and  of  his  own  despotism, 
the  picture  of  it  all  that  arose  in  Trenholme's  imagination 
was  exceedingly  different  from  what  would  have  been 
there  had  he  seen  the  reality.  He  would  not  have  liked 
Cameron's  daughter  had  he  seen  her,  but,  seeing  her 
through  the  medium  of  a  heart  that  loved  her,  all  the 
reverence  that  is  due  to  womanly  sweetness  stirred  in  him. 


CHAP.  V] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  K'NOU'S 


191 


,e 


Cupid  may  be  blind,  but  to  the  eyes  of  chastened  love  is 
given  the  vision  of  God. 

When  it  appeared  that  Bates  had  said  all  tliat  he  was 
going  to  say,  Alec  Trenholme  sat  pondering  the  problem  of 
this  girl's  disappearance  with  more  mental  energy  than  he 
had  before  given  to  it.  Knowing  the  place  now,  he  knew 
that  what  Bates  and  Saul  had  averred  was  true — that  there 
were  but  two  ways  by  which  any  one  could  leave  it  while 
water  was  unfrozen,  one  by  the  boat,  and  the  other  by 
striking  at  random  across  the  hill  to  the  back  of  the  farm 
— a  route  that  could  only  lead  either  to  one  of  several  iso- 
lated farms,  or,  by  a  forty-mile  tramp  round  by  the  nearest 
river  bridge,  to  the  railway.  At  no  farm-house  had  she 
been  seen,  and  the  journey  by  the  bridge  was  too  long  to 
have  been  accomplished  before  the  snow  storm  must  have 
impeded  her.  It  was  in  attempting  this  journey,  Bates 
was  convinced,  that  she  had  perished.  Tliere  was,  of 
course,  another  possibility  that  had  been  mooted  at  Turrifs 
Settlement;  but  the  testimony  of  Bates  and  Saul,  agreeing 
in  the  main  points,  had  entirely  silenced  it.  Trenholme, 
thinking  of  this  now,  longed  to  question  more  nearly,  yet 
hardly  dared. 

"Do  you  think  she  could  have  gone  mad?  People  some- 
times do  go  stark  mad  suddenly.  Because,  if  so,  and  if 
you  could  be  mistaken  in  thinking  you  saw  her  in  the  house 
when  you  went " 

The  Scotchman  was  looking  keenly  at  him  with  sharp 
eyes  and  haggard  face.  "I  understand  ye,"  he  said,  with 
a  sigh  of  resignation,  "the  noise  0'  the  thing  has  been  such 
that  there's  no  evil  men  haven't  thought  of  me,  or  madness 
of  her.  Ye  think  the  living  creature  ye  saw  rise  from  the 
coffin  was,  maybe,  the  dead  man's  daughter?" 

"I  think  it  was  much  too  big  for  a  woman." 

"Oh,  as  to  that,  she  was  a  good  height."  Perhaps,  with 
involuntary  thought  of  what  might  have  been,  he  drew 
himself  up  to  his  full  stature  as  he  said,  "  A  grand  height 
for  a  woman  J  but  as  to  this  idea  of  yours,  I'll  not  sayye're 


192 


IVHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  II 


11 


I 


I 


insulting  her  by  it,  though  that's  true  too;  but  I've  had 
the  same  notion;  and  now  I'll  tell  ye  something.  She  was 
not  mad;  she  took  clothes;  she  left  everything  in  order. 
Was  that  the  act  of  a  maniac?  and  if  she  wasn't  mad,  clean 
out  of  her  wits,  would  she  have  done  such  a  thing  as  ye're 
thinking  of?  " 

"No"— thoughtfully— "I  should  think  not." 

"And,  furthermore;  if  she  had  wished  to  do  it,  where 
is  it  she  could  have  laid  him?  D'ye  think  I  haven't  looked 
the  ground  over?  Tliere's  no  place  where  she  could  have 
buried  him,  and  to  take  him  to  the  lake  was  beyond  her 
strength."  There  was  nothing  of  the  everyday  irascibility 
about  his  voice;  the  patience  of  a  great  grief  was  upon  him, 
as  he  argued  away  the  gross  suspicion. 

"  That  settles  it."     Trenholme  said  this  willingly  enough. 

"Yes,  it  settles  it;  for  if  there  was  a  place  where  the 
earth  was  loose  I  dug  with  my  own  hands  down  to  the  very 
rock,  and  neither  man  nor  woman  lay  under  it." 

Trenholme  was  affected;  he  again  renounced  his  sus- 
picion. 

"And  now  I've  told  ye  that,"  said  Bates,  "I'll  tell  ye 
something  else,  for  it's  right  ye  should  know  that  when  the 
spring  comes  it'll  not  be  in  my  power  to  help  ye  with  the 
logs — not  if  we  should  lose  the  flood  and  have  to  let  'em  lie 
till  next  year — for  when  the  snow  passes,  I  must  be  on  the 
hills  seeking  her."  (He  had  put  a  brown,  bony  hand  to 
shade  his  eyes,  and  from  out  its  shade  he  looked. )  "  There 
were  many  to  help  me  seek  her  alive;  I'll  take  none  wi'  me 
when  I  go  to  give  her  burial." 

The  other  saddened.  The  weary  length  and  uncertainty 
of  such  a  search,  and  its  dismal  purpose,  came  to  him. 

"  You've  no  assurance  that  she  hasn't  drowned  herself  in 
the  lake  here,"  he  cried,  remonstrating. 

"But  I  have  that;  and  as  ye'll  be  naturally  concerned  at 
me  leaving  the  logs,  I'll  tell  ye  what  it  is,  if  ye'll  give  me 
your  word  as  an  honest  man  that  ye'll  not  repeat  it  at  any 
time  or  place  whatsoever." 


CHAP.  Vl] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


193 


He  looked  so  like  a  man  seeking  courage  to  confess  some 
secret  sin  that  Trenholme  drew  back. 

"  I'll  not  <eW,  but " 

Bates  took  no  heed.  "My  aunt,"  he  began,  "had  money- 
laid  by;  she  had  ten  English  sovereigns  she  liked  to  keep 
by  her — women  often  do.  There  was  no  one  but  me  and 
Sissy  knew  where  it  was ;  and  she  took  them  with  lier.     By 

that  I  know  she  was  making  for  the  railway,  and "     His 

voice  grew  unsteady  as  he  brought  his  hand  down;  there 
was  a  look  of  far-off  vision  in  his  eyes,  as  though  he  saw 
the  thing  of  which  he  sp'oke.  "Ay,  she's  lying  now  some- 
where on  uhe  hills,  where  sir  would  be  beaten  down  by  the 
snow  before  she  reached  a  road." 

Trenholme  was  thinking  of  the  sadness  cf  it  all,  forgetting 
to  wonder  even  why  he  had  been  told  net  to  repeat  this  last, 
when  he  found  Bates  was  regarding  his  silence  with  angry 
suspicion. 

"It  wasn't  stealing,"  he  baid  irritably;  "she  knew  she 
might  have  them  i,f  she  wanted."  It  was  as  though  he  were 
giving  a  shuffling  excuse  for  some  fault  of  his  own  and  felt 
its  weakness. 

The  young  man,  taken  by  surprise,  said  mechanically, 
"Would  Miss  Bates  have  given  them  to  her?"  He  had 
fallen  into  the  habit  of  referring  to  the  childish  old  woman 
witii  all  due  form,  for  he  saw  Bates  liked  it. 

"Hoots!  What  are  you  saying,  man?  Would  ye  have 
had  the  lassie  leave  the  burden  on  my  mind  that  she'd  gone 
out  of  her  father's  house  penniless?  'Twas  the  one  kindness 
she  did  me  to  take  the  gold." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

One  evening  Alec  Trenholme  sat  down  to  write  to  his 
brother.  Bates  had  urged  him  to  write,  and,  after  a  due 
interval,  of  his  own  accord  he  wrote.  The  urging  and  the 
writing  had  a  certain  relation  of  cause  and  effect,  but  the 


1       ;      1 

."     !     •      ■ 

'  '  j  L 

ij 

.         :      i        I'l 

;       :     ■        ;! 

i  iiJi 

194 


WHAT  NEC  ESS /TV  KNOWS 


[book  II 


writer  did  not  think  so.  Also,  the  letter  he  wrote  was  very- 
different  from  the  document  of  penitence  and  recantation 
that  Bates  had  advised,  and  now  supposed  him  to  be  writing. 
He  gave  a  brief  account  of  what  he  had  done  before  he 
accepted  the  post  of  station-master  at  Turrifs  Station,  and 
then, 

"  I  liked  it  well  enough,"  he  wrote,  "  until  one  night  a  queer  thing 
happened.  As  evening  came  on,  a  man  drove  up  bringing  a  coffin 
to  be  sent  by  train  to  the  next  village  for  burial.  When  I  was  left 
alone  with  the  thing,  the  man  inside  got  up — he  really  did,  I  saw  him. 
I  shut  him  in  and  ran  to  fetch  the  carter,  but  couldn't  catch  hiii. 
When  I  came  back,  the  man  had  got  out  and  ran  into  the  wooa. 
They  had  lined  the  box  with  a  white  bed-quilt,  and  we  found  that 
some  miles  away  in  the  bush  the  next  day,  but  we  never  found  the 
man  ;  and  the  queer  thing  is  that  thore  were  two  men  and  a  girl  who 
seem  to  have  been  quite  certain  he  was  dead.  One  of  them,  a  very 
intelligent  fellow  that  I  am  staying  with  now,  thinks  the  carter  must 
have  played  some  trick  on  the  way  ;  but  I  hardly  believe  that  myself, 
from  the  way  the  carter  acted.  I  think  he  spoke  the  truth  ;  he  said 
he  had  been  alone  on  the  road  all  day,  and  had  been  scared  out  of  his 
wits  by  hearing  the  man  turn  in  the  coffin.  He  seemed  well  fright- 
ened, too.  Of  course,  if  this  is  true,  the  man  could  not  really  have 
been  dead  ;  but  I'm  not  trying  to  give  an  explanation  ;  I'm  just  tell- 
ing you  what  occurred.  Well,  things  went  on  quietly  enough  for 
another  month,  and  on  the  last  night  of  the  old  year  the  place  was 
snowed  up — tracks,  roads,  everything — and  at  midnight  an  old  man 
came  about  who  answered  to  the  description  I  had  of  the  dead  man, 
clothes  and  all,  for  it  seems  they  were  burying  him  in  his  clothes. 
He  was  rather  deaf,  and  blind  I  think,  though  I'm  not  sure,  and  he 
seemed  to  be  wandering  in  his  mind  somehow ;  but  he  was  a  fine, 
powerful  fellow — reminded  me  a  little  of  father — and  the  pathetic 
thing  about  it  was  that  he  had  got  the  idea  into  his  head " 

Here  Alec  stopped,  and,  holding  the  pen  idly  in  his  hand, 
sat  lost  in  thought.  So  wistful  did  he  look,  so  wrapt,  that 
Bates,  glancing  furtively  at  him,  thought  the  letter  had 
raised  associations  of  his  home  and  childhood,  and  took 
himself  off  to  bed,  hoping  that  the  letter  would  be  more 
brotherly  if  the  writer  was  left  alone.  But  when  Alec  put 
pen  to  paper  again  he  only  wrote : — 


CHAP.  •  l] 


WHAT  NEC  ESS /TV  KNOWS 


195 


"  Well,  I  don't  know  that  it  matters  what  he  had  got  into  his  head  ; 
it  hadn't  anything  to  do  with  whether  he  was  Cameron  (the  name  of 
the  man  supposed  dead)  or  not.  I  could  not  get  a  word  out  of  him 
as  to  who  he  was  or  where  he  came  from.  I  did  all  I  could  to  get  him 
to  come  in  and  have  food  and  get  warmed  ;  but  though  I  went  after 
him  and  stood  with  him  a  long  while,  I  didn't  succeed.  He  was  as 
strong  as  a  giant.  It  was  awfully  solemn  to  see  an  old  man  like  that 
wandering  bareheaded  in  the  snow  at  night,  so  far  from  any  human 
being.  I  was  forced  to  lenve  him,  for  the  engine  came  clearing  the 
track.  I  got  some  men  to  come  after  him  with  me,  but  he  was  gone, 
and  we  never  saw  him  again.  I  stayed  on  there  ten  days,  trying  to 
hear  something  of  him,  and  after  that  I  came  here  to  try  my  hand  at 
lumbering.  The  owner  of  this  place  here  was  terribly  cut  up  about 
the  affair.  It  was  he  who  started  the  coffin  I  told  you  of,  and  he's 
been  left  quite  alone  because  this  tale  frightened  men  from  coming  to 
work  for  him  in  the  winter  as  usual.  I  have  a  very  comfortable  berth 
here.  I  think  there  must  have  been  something  curious — a  streak 
of  some  kind — in  the  dead  man's  family  ;  his  only  daughter  went  off 
from  here  in  a  rage  a  few  days  after  his  death,  and  as  the  snow  came 
at  once,  she  is  supposed  to  have  perished  in  the  drifts  on  the  hills. 
Our  logs  have  to  be  floated  ddwn  the  small  river  here  at  the  spring 
flood,  and  this  man,  Bates,  is  determined  to  look  for  the  lost  girl  at 
the  same  time.  I'll  stay  and  see  him  through  the  spring.  Very  likely 
I  shall  look  in  on  you  in  summer." 

Alec  Trenholme  went  to  bed  not  a  little  sleepy,  but  satis- 
fied that  he  had  given  a  clear  account  of  the  greater  part  of 
what  had  befallen  him. 

The  next  day  he  tramped  as  far  as  the  railway  to  post  the 
letter. 

When  Principal  Trenholme  received  this  letter  he  was 
standing  in  his  library,  holding  an  interview  with  some  of 
his  elder  pupils.  He  had  a  pleasant  manner  with  boys; 
his  rule  was  to  make  friends  with  them  as  much  as  possible ; 
and  if  he  was  not  the  darling  of  their  hearts,  he  was  as  dear 
to  them  as  a  pedagogue  ever  is  to  a  class  under  his  authority. 
When  he  saw  Alec's  letter,  his  heart  within  him  leaped 
with  hope  and  quailed  with  fear.  It  is  only  a  few  times 
during  his  life  that  a  man  regards  a  letter  in  this  way,  and 
usually  after  long  suspense  on  a  subject  which  looms  large 
in  his  estimate  of  things.     When  he  could  disengage  him- 


ii 


:  1 


'I  I 


196 


JVHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  II 


self,  he  tore  it  open,  and  the  first  question  with  which  he 
scanned  it  concerned  Alec  only — was  he  in  trouble?  had  he 
carried  out  his  threat  of  evil-doing?  or  was  it  well  with 
him? 

Robert  Trenholnie  was  not  now  merely  of  the  stuff  of 
which  men  of  the  world  are  made.  Could  we  but  know  it, 
a  man's  mind  probably  bears  to  his  religion  no  very  differ- 
ent relation  f xom  what  his  body  bears ;  his  creed,  opinions, 
and  sentiments  are  more  nearly  allied  to  what  St.  Paul  calls 
"  the  flesh "  than  they  are  to  the  hidden  life  of  the  man, 
with  which  God  deals.  To  the  inner  spring  of  Robert 
Trenholme's  life  God  had  access,  so  that  his  creed,  and  the 
law  of  temperance  in  him,  had,  not  perfection,  but  vitality; 
and  the  same  vitality,  now  permitted,  now  refused,  by 
unseen  inlets  flowed  into  all  he  did  and  was,  and  his  esti- 
mate of  things  was  changed.  He,  in  subtle  selfishness,  did 
much,  almost  all  he  could,  to  check  and  interrupt  the 
incoming  life,  although  indeed  he  prayed,  and  often  sup- 
posed his  most  ardent  desire  was,  to  obtain  it.  Such  is 
the  average  man  of  faith;  such  was  Robert  Trenholme — a 
better  thing,  truly,  than  a  mere  man,  but  not  outwardly  or 
inwardly  so  consistent. 

The  great  fear  he  had  when  he  opened  this  letter  was 
that  he  had  caused  his  brother  to  stumble ;  the  great  hope, 
that,  because  of  his  prayers,  Heaven  would  grant  it  should 
not  be  so ;  but  when,  on  the  first  hasty  glance  over  the  pages, 
he  discovered  that  Alec  was  well,  and  was  apparently  amus- 
ing himself  in  a  harmless  way,  that  fear  and  hope  instantly- 
glided  into  the  background ;  he  hardly  knew  that  they  had 
both  been  strong,  so  faded  did  they  look  in  the  light  of  the 
commonplace  certainty. 

The  next  question  that  pressed  assumed  an  air  of  para- 
mount importance.  He  had  asked  Alec  to  enter  some  hon- 
ourable mercantile  profession.  He  had  pressed  this  in  the 
first  interview,  when  the  hot-tempered  young  man  had  left 
him  in  a  rage.  He  had  argued  the  point  in  subsequent 
letters;  he  had  even  offered  his  own  share  of  their  inheri- 


i    :. 


CHAP.  Vl] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


197 


taiice  as  additional  capital.  He  felt  that  he  deserved  an 
answer  to  tliis  offer,  and  believed  that  his  happiness  de- 
pended upon  Alec's  acceding  to  the  proposed  change  of  his 
life-plan.  His  mind  full  of  this  secondary  subject,  he 
perused  the  sheets  of  the  letter  with  singular  impatience 
and  distaste.  Any  man  might,  in  the  most  favourable 
circumstances,  have  been  excused  for  experiencing  impa- 
tience at  having  so  wild  a  tale  foisted  in  brief  confusion 
upon  his  credulity;  in  the  mood  of  his  present  circumstance 
the  elder  Trenholme  refolded  tlie  letter,  using  within  him- 
self the  strongest  language  in  his  vocabulary. 

Robert  Trenholme  was  not  a  happy  man  just  now.  Since 
he  had  last  seen  Alec  a  change  had  come  to  him  which 
made  this  matter  of  the  other's  calling  of  warmer  interest 
than  it  had  been.  Then  his  early  love  for  Sophia  Rexford 
had  been  a  memory  and  a  far,  half -formed  hope ;  now  it  had 
been  roused  again  to  be  a  true,  steady  flame,  an  ever-present 
influence.  His  one  desire  now  was  to  win  her  affection. 
He  would  not  be  afraid  then  to  tell  her  all  that  there  was 
to  tell  of  himself,  and  let  her  love  decide.  He  did  not  feel 
that  he  should  wrong  her  in  this.  At  present  he  had  every- 
thing to  give,  she  everything  to  receive,  except  the  posses- 
sion of  gentle  blood,  which  would  apparently  be  her  only 
dowry.  The  girl  he  could  not  once  have  dared  to  address 
was  now  working  servantless  in  her  father's  kitchen;  he 
knew  that  it  was  no  light  drudgery;  and  he  could  offer  her 
a  comparatively  luxurious  home,  and  a  name  that  had 
attracted  to  itself  no  small  honour.  He  had  a  nice  appreci- 
ation for  what  is  called  position,  and  the  belief  that  their 
mutual  positions  had  changed  was  very  sweet  to  him.  All 
his  mind  expanded  in  this  thought,  as  the  nerves  of  the 
opium-eater  to  the  influence  of  his  drug;  it  soothed  him 
when  he  was  weary;  it  consoled  him  when  he  was  vexed; 
it  had  come  to  him  as  an  unexpected,  unsought  good,  like  a 
blessing  direct  from  heaven. 

This  was  as  things  now  were ;  but  if  his  brother  adhered 
to  his  purpose  of  establishing  himself  in  his  business  in  the 


198 


l^HAT  r^ECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  II 


same  country,  that  would  make  a  difference — a  difference 
that  it  svas  hard,  perhaps,  lor  a  thoughtful  man  to  put  into 
wordfc;,  but  which  was  still  harder  to  wipe  away  by  any 
sophistry  of  words.  Robert  Trenholme  may  have  been  wise, 
or  he  may  have  been  foolish,  but  he  estimated  this  differ- 
ence as  great.  Should  Alec  persist  in  tliis  thing,  it  would, 
in  the  I'i.'st  place.,  endanger  the  success  of  his  school,  or  alter 
his  relation  to  that  school;  in  the  second,  it  would  m?ke 
him  more  unworthy  in  the  eyes  of  all  Sophia's  well-uorn 
relatives.  While  he  remained  in  suspense,  therefore,  he 
was  too  honourable  to  seek  to  entangle  her  affections  by  the 
small  arts  that  are  used  for  such  purposes ;  for  if  the  worst 
came,  he  felt  that  he  would  be  too  proud  to  ask  her  to  be 
his  wife,  or,  if  love  should  overcome  pride,  and  he  should 
still  sue  for  what  he  loved  better  than  life,  he  '  i  ast  do  so 
before  he  sought  her  heart — not  after ;  he  must  la^  his  cause 
before  the  tribunal  of  Sophia's  wit  before  she  had  let  go  her 
heart — a  thing  that  he,  being  what  he  was,  had  not  courage 
to  do. 

He  was  not  "  living  a  lie  "  (as  his  brother  had  said)  any 
more  than  every  man  does  who  allows  his  mind  to  dwell  on 
the  truth  of  what  pleases  him  more  than  on  disagreeable 
truth.  The  fact  thait  he  was,  by  a  distant  tie  of  consan- 
guinity, related  to  a  gentleman  of  some  county  position  in 
England  was  just  as  true,  and  to  Trenholme 's  mind  more 
largely  true,  than  the  fact  of  his  father's  occupation.  Yet 
he  had  never  made  this  a  boast;  he  had  never  voluntarily 
stated  the  pleasant  truth  to  any  one  to  whom  he  had  not 
also  told  the  unpleasant;  and  where  he  had  kept  silence 
concerning  the  latter,  he  had  done  so  by  the  advice  of  good 
men,  and  with  excuse  concerning  his  professional  influence. 
Yet,  some  way,  he  was  not  sufficiently  satisfied  with  all 
this  to  have  courage  to  bring  it  before  Miss  Rexford,  nor 
yet  was  he  prepared  (a-nd  here  was  his  worldly  disadvantage) 
to  sacrifice  his  conscience  to  success.  He  would  not  ask  his 
brother  to  change,  except  in  so  far  as  he  could  urge  that 
brother's  duty  and  advantage;  he  would  not  say  to  him, 


CHAP,  vii]      ■     Py/ZAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


!99 


•'Do  this  for  my  sake";  nor  yet  would  he  say,  "Go,  then, 
to  tlie  oth>^r  side  of  the  world";  nor  yet,  "You  shall  be  no 
longer  my  brother." 

Robert  Trenholme  was  bearing  a  haunted  life.  The 
ghost  was  a  fantastic  one,  truly — that  of  a  butcher's  shop; 
but  it  was  a  very  real  haunting. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

The  Rexford  family  was  without  a  servant.  Eliza,  the 
girl  they  had  brought  with  them  from  Quebec,  had  gone  to 
a  situation  at  the  Chellaston  hotel.  The  proprietor  and 
manager  of  that  large  building,  having  become  lame  with 
rheumatism,  had  been  sorely  in  need  of  a  lieutenant,  or 
housekeeper,  and  had  chosen  one  with  that  shrewdness 
which  had  ever  been  his  business  capital.  His  choice  had 
fallen  on  Eliza  and  she  had  accepted  the  place. 

When  Robert  Trenholme  heard  of  this  arrangement  he 
was  concerned,  knowing  how  difficult  servants  were  to  pro- 
cure. He  took  occasion  to  speak  to  Miss  Rexford  on  the 
subject,  expressing  sympathy  with  her  and  strong  censure 
of  Eliza. 

"  Indeed  I  am  not  sure  but  that  she  has  done  right, "  said 
Sophia. 

"  You  surprise  me  very  much.  I  thought  you  made  some- 
what of  a  companion  of  her." 

"  I  do ;  and  that  is  why,  after  hearing  what  she  has  to  say 
about  it,  X  think  she  has  done  right.  She  has  abilities,  and 
this  is  the  only  opening  in  sight  in  which  she  can  exercise 
them." 

"I  should  think" — sternly — "that  these  abilities  were 
better  unexercised." 

"  That  is  probably  because  you  haven't  the  least  idea  what 
it  is  to  have  energies  and  faculties  for  which  you  have  no 
scope  " — this  archly. 


200 


IV//AT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  II 


Hi 


li 


I 


"But  I  should  think  the  risk  of  learning  pert  man- 
ners  " 

"  That  is  the  way  men  always  argue  about  women.  I  tell 
you  there  is  no  such  risk  for  an  energetic,  clever  girl  as  to 
place  her  where  the  rust  of  unexercised  faculties  will  eat 
into  her  soul.  It  is  just  because  so  many  girls  have  to 
undergo  this  risk,  and  cannot  do  it  safely,  that  the  world  is 
so  full  of  women  that  are  captious  or  morbid  or  silly.  Boys 
treated  in  the  same  way  would  turn  out  as  badly." 

"But  there  is  scope  for  all  the  highest  faculties  of  a 
woman's  nature  in  such  a  household  as  yours,"  cried  he. 

"  Since  you  say  so  " — politely — "  I  am  bound  to  believe 
it." 

"No,  but  really — do  you  mean  to  say  you  don't  think 
so?" 

"  You  have  just  expressed  yourself  so  positively  that  I  am 
curious  to  know  how  you  came  by  your  knowledge,  first,  as 
to  Eliza's  faculties,  and  secondly,  as  to  the  scope  for  them 
in  our  house." 

"  It  is  unkind  of  you  to  laugh  at  me  when  I  am  only  a 
humble  enquirer  after  truth." 

"  Having  expressed  yourself  thus  modestly- 

"  Nay,  but  I  only  said  what  I  would  have  said  about  any 
girl  in  any  such  family." 

"  And  you  only  said  it  with  that  simplicity  of  certainty 
which  every  man  would  have  felt  on  the  same  subject." 

"  I  cry  a  truce ;  I  plead  for  mercy.  Let  us  have  out  the 
traits  of  Eliza's  character  separately,  and  examine  the  scope 
in  detail." 

"To  begin  with,  she  has  wonderful  foresight;  her  power 
to  plan  the  work  of  the  house  so  as  to  get  it  done  as  easily 
as  possible  often  surprises  me.  Now,  of  what  use  is  this 
faculty  in  the  kingdom  of  my  step-mother,  who  always  acts 
on  the  last  impulse,  and  upsets  every  one's  plans  without 
even  observing  them?  She  has  great  executive  ability,  tpo; 
but  what  use  is  it  when,  as  soon  as  she  gets  interested  in 
the  accomplishment  of  something,  my  mother  cries,  'Come, 


)) 


1^' 


CHAP.  VIl] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


aoi 


Elizn,  all  work  and  no  play  makes  Jack  a  dull  boy;  go  and 
romp  M  i^li  the  children! '  Then,  too,  she  has  plenty  of  re- 
source ;  bat  cf  what  use  is  that,  when  the  thing  she  sees  to  be 
best  in  an  emergency  is  seldom  the  thing  that  is  done?  The 
hotel-keeper  is  more  observing  than  you ;  he  has  noticed  that 
Eliza  is  no  ordinary  manager,  and  offered  her  high  wages." 

"You  know,  of  course,  what  you  lire  talking  about,"  said 
Trenholme,  feelingly,  for  he  had  no  doubt  that  her  sympa- 
thy with  Eliza  had  arisen  out  of  the  pains  of  her  own  expe- 
rience ;  "  but  in  your  house  there  is  surely  boundless  room 
for  humble,  loving  service;  and  how  much  better  this  girl 
would  be  if  she  could  set  aside  her  cleverness  to  perform 
such  service."  He  did  not  add,  "as  you  have  done/'  but 
there  was  that  in  his. voice  which  implied  it.  He  went  on: 
"  I  do  not  yet  allow  that  you  have  disproved  my  statement, 
for  I  said  that  where  she  was  she  had  scope  for  her  highest 
faculties." 

"  I  suppose  it  is  admitted  that  the  highest  faculty  of  man 
is  worship,"  remarked  Sophia,  suggesting  that  he  was  not 
speaking  to  the  point ;  "  but  that  is  no  reason  why  a  boy 
with  a  head  for  figures  should  be  made  a  farmer,  or  that  a 
young  woman  with  special  ability  should  remain  a  maid-of- 
all-work." 

"  And  what  of  the  affections — love  foi  children,  and  for 
other  women  better  than  herself?  A  girl  who  has  such 
privileges  as  this  girl  had  with  you  has  a  far  better  chance 
of  doing  well  than  in  a  public  hotel,  even  if  that  were  a 
safe  place  for  her." 

Possibly  Sophia  thought  her  companion  showed  too  great 
sensibility  concerning  Eliza's  privileges,  for  she  did  not 
take  notice  of  any  but  the  last  part  of  his  sentence. 

"It  is  a  safe  place  for  her;  for  she  is  able  to  take  care 
of  herself  anywhere,  if  she  chooses;  and  if  she  doesn't 
choose,  no  place  is  safe.  Besides,  you  know,  the  place  is 
a  boarding-house  really,  rather  than  an  hotel." 

"  I  am  not  so  surprised  at  the  view  you  take  of  it,  for  you 
will  do  more  than  any  one  else  to  supply  her  place." 


m 


'if 
is 


202 


tV//AT  NECESS/TV  k'JVOlVS 


[rook  ir 


I ' 


:l 


I 


I ; 


This,  Trenholme's  feeling  prophecy,  was  quite  true. 
Sopliia  (lid  do  more  of  Eliza's  work  than  any  one.  She 
spared  her  younger  sisters  because  she  wanted  them  to  be 
happy. 

In  spite  of  this,  however,  Sophia  was  not  so  much  in 
need  of  some  one's  sympathy  as  were  those  younger  girls, 
who  had  less  work  to  do.  A  large  element  in  happiness  is 
the  satisfaction  of  one's  craving  for  romance.  Now,  there 
are  three  eras  of  romance  in  human  life.  The  first  is 
childhood,  when,  even  if  the  mind  is  not  filled  with  ficti- 
tious fairy  tales  which  clothe  nature,  life  is  itself  a  fairy 
tale,  a  journey  through  an  unexplored  region,  an  enterprise 
full  of  effort  and  wonder,  big  with  hope,  an  endless  expec- 
tation, to  which  trivial  realisations  seem  large.  It  was  in 
this  era  that  the  younger  Rexford  children,  up  to  Wini- 
fred, still  lived;  they  built  snow-men,  half  expecting, 
when  they  finished  them  in  the  gloaming,  that  the  thing  of 
their  creation  would  turn  and  pursue  them;  they  learned 
to  guide  toboggans  with  a  trailing  toe,  and  half  dreamed 
that  their  steeds  were  alive  when  they  felt  them  bound  and 
strain,  so  perfectly  did  they  respond  to  the  rider's  will. 
Sophia,  again,  had  reached  the  third  epoch  of  romance, 
when,  at  a  certain  age,  people  make  the  discovery  of  the 
wondrous  loveliness  in  the  face  of  the  Lady  Duty,  and, 
putting  a  hand  in  hers,  go  onward,  thinking  nothing  hard 
because  of  her  beauty.  But  it  is  admitted  by  all  that  there 
is  often,  a  stage  between  these  two,  when  all  the  romance 
of  life  is  summed  up  in  the  hackneyed  word  "love."  The 
pretty  girls  who  were  nicknamed  Blue  and  Red  had  out- 
grown childhood,  and  they  saw  no  particular  charm  in 
work;  they  were  very  dull,  and  scarce  knew  why,  except 
that  they  half  envied  Eliza,  who  had  gone  to  the  hotel, 
and  who,  it  was  well  known,  had  a  suitor  in  the  person  of 
Mr.  Cyril  Harkness,  the  Philadelphian  dentist. 

Harkness  had  set  up  his  consulting  room  in  the  hotel, 
but,  for  economy's  sake,  he  lodged  himself  in  the  old  Har- 
mon house  that  was  just  beyond  Captain  Rexford's,  on  the 


'     T| 


CHAP,  vii]  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


203 


same  road.  By  tliis  arrangement  he  passed  tlie  latter  house 
twice  a  day,  but  he  never  took  any  notice  of  Bhie  and  lied. 
They  did  not  wish  that  he  shouhl — oh  no,  they  were  above 
that — but  they  felt  sure  that  Eliza  was  very  silly  to  dis- 
like him  as  she  did,  and — well,  between  themselves,  they 
found  an  infinite  variety  of  things  to  say  concerning  him, 
sayings  emphasised  by  sweet  little  chuckles  of  laughter, 
and  not  unfrequently  wandering  sighs.  Sophia,  at  their 
age,  had  had  many  suitors,  this  was  the  family  traditi(m, 
and  lo,  upon  their  own  barren  horizon  there  was  only  one 
pretty  young  man,  and  he  only  to  be  looked  at,  as  it  were, 
through  the  bars  of  a  fence. 

One  day,  when  the  blue  merino  frock  was  flitting  about 
near  the  red  one,  the  wearers  of  both  being  engaged  in 
shaking  up  a  feather  bed,  Ked  suddenly  stopped  her  occu- 
pation in  some  excitement. 

"  Oh,  Blue !  "  She  paused  a  moment  as  if  she  were  expe- 
riencing some  interesting  sensation;  "oh.  Blue,  I  think 
I've  got  toothache." 

"  No !  "  cried  Blue,  incredulously,  but  with  hope. 

Again  over  Red's  face  came  the  absorbed  expression  of 
introspection,  and  she  carefully  indented  the  outside  of  her 
pretty  cheek  several  times  with  her  forefinger. 

"Yes,  I'm  sure  I  feel  it.  But  no;  there,  it's  gone 
again ! " 

"It's  just  the  very  way  things  have,"  said  Blue,  lament- 
ing. "For  two  months  we've  quite  wished  we  had  tooth- 
ache, and  there  was  Tommy  the  other  night  just  roaring 
with  it." 

"I  shouldn't  like  a  roaring  toothache,"  said  Red,  reflec- 
tively. 

"Oh,  but  the  worse  it  was,"  cried  Blue,  encouragingly, 

"the  more  necessary  it  would  be "     She  stopped  and 

shook  her  head  with  a  very  roguish  and  significant  glance 
at  her  sister. 

"Mamma  only  put  a  bag  of  hot  salt  to  Tommy's,"  said 
Red,  prognosticating  evil. 


m 


204 


WHAT  I^ECESSITV  KNOWS 


[kook  II 


"But  if  it  wore  me,"  cried  Blue,  with  assurance,  "I'd 
not  be  cured  by  bags  of  hot  salt.  I  would  insist  upon  con- 
sulting a  dentist." 

They  both  lauglied  a  laugh  of  joyful  plotting. 

"It  was  only  the  otlier  day,"  said  Ked,  twisting  her 
little  English  voice  into  the  American  accent,  "  that  he  told 
Harold  he  was  right  down  clever  at  tinkering  a  tooth  in 
the  most  pain/ess  manner." 

"Oh,  Ked,  dear  Ked,"  begged  Blue,  "do  feel  it  again,  foi 
my  sake;  it  would  be  so  joyfully  funny  if  mamma  would 
take  us  to  him." 

"I'd  a  little  bit  rather  you  had  the  ache,  Blue." 

"  I'd  have  it  this  instant  if  I  could,  but " — reproachfully 
— "it  was  you  that  felt  the  twinge." 

"Well,  I  don't  mind,"  said  Ked,  heroically,  "as  long  as 
my  cheek  doesn't  swell;  I  won't  go  with  a  swelled  face." 

"What  would  it  matter?  He  knows  that  your  face  is 
alike  on  both  sides  usually." 

"Still,  I  shouldn't  like  it,"  reiDlied  Ked,  with  a  touch  of 
obstinacy. 

Eliza,  however,  was  of  a  very  different  mind  about  this 
same  young  man.  She  had  not  taken  her  new  situation 
with  any  desire  to  see  more  of  him ;  rather  she  hoped  that 
by  seeing  him  oftener  she  should  more  quickly  put  an  end 
to  his  addresses. 

The  "  Grand  Hotel "  of  Chellaston  was,  as  Miss  Kexford 
had  said,  a  boarding-house.  It  had  few  transient  visitors. 
The  only  manufacturer  of  the  village,  and  his  wife,  lived 
in  it  all  the  year  round;  so  did  one  of  the  shopkeepers. 
Several  other  quiet  people  lived  there  all  winter;  in  sum- 
mer the  prices  were  raised,  and  it  was  filled  to  overflowing 
by  more  fashionable  visitors  from  the  two  cities  that  were 
within  a  short  journey.  This  "hotel"  was  an  enormous 
wooden  house,  built  in  the  simplest  fashion,  a  wide  corri- 
dor running  from  front  to  rear  on  each  storey,  on  which  the 
room  doors  opened.  Rooms  and  corridors  were  large,  lofty, 
and  well-lighted  by  large   windows.     The  dining-room. 


'    t 

! 


I-N^ 


CHAP.  VIl] 


WHAT  NECKSS/jy  K/VOH'S 


805 


l)illi;ird-rooiu,  otRco,  and  bar-room,  011  the  ground- floor, 
together  with  the  stairs  and  corridors,  were  unearpeted, 
painted  all  over  a  light  slate  grey.  With  the  exception  of 
liealthy  geraniums  in  most  of  the  windows,  there  was  little 
ornament  in  these  ground-floor  rooms;  but  all  was  new, 
clean,  and  airy.  The  upper  rooms  were  more  heavily  fur- 
nished, but  were  most  of  them  sliut  up  in  winter.  All  the 
year  round  the  landlord  took  in  the  daily  pai)ers;  and  for 
that  reason  his  bar-room,  large  and  always  tolerably  quiet, 
was  the  best  public  reading-room  the  village  boasted. 

The  keeper  of  this  establishment  was  a  rather  elderly 
man,  and  of  latr  he  had  been  so  crippled  by  rheumatism 
that  he  could  walk  little  and  only  on  crutches.  He  was 
not  a  dainty  man;  his  coat  Avas  generally  dusty,  his  grey 
beard  had  always  a  grimy  appearance  of  tobacco  about  it. 
He  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  day  now  sitting  in  a  high 
pivot  chair,  his  crutches  leaning  against  it. 

"  You  see,  miss,"  he  said  to  Eliza,  "  I'll  tell  you  what  the 
crying  need  for  you  is  in  thi-^  house  at  present;  it's  to  step 
round  spry  and  see  that  the  girls  do  their  work.  It's  this 
way ;  when  I  was  spry,  if  I  wasn't  in  the  room,  the  young 
people  knew  that,  like  as  not,  I  was  just  round  the  corner; 
they  knew  I  might  be  there  any  minute;  at  present  they 
know  they'll  hear  my  sticks  before  I  see  them.  It  makes 
all  the  difference.  What  I  want  of  you  is  to  be  feet  for 
me,  and  eyes  for  me,  and  specially  in  the  dining-room. 
Mrs.  Bantry — that  dressy  lady  you  saw  in  the  corridor — 
Mrs.  Bantry  told  me  that  this  morning  they  brought  her 
buckwheat  cakes,  and  ten  minutes  after,  the  syrup  to  eat 
'em  with.     How  hot  do  you  suppose  they  were?" 

He  finished  his  speech  with  the  fine  sarcasm  of  this 
question.  He  looked  at  Eliza  keenly.  "You're  young," 
he  remarked  warningly,  "but  I  believe  you're  powerful." 

And  Eliza  showed  that  she  was  powerful  by  doing  the 
thing  that  he  desired  of  her,  in  spite  of  the  opposition  from 
the  servants  which  she  at  first  experienced.  She  had  a 
share  of  hand  work  to  do  also,  which  was  not  light,  but 


,  '* 


H: 


206 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  II 


! 


i 


i 


•  ■ 

I 


she  had  high  wages,  a  comfortable  room  in  the  top  storey, 
and  the  women  who  were  boarding  in  the  house  made 
friends  with  her.  She  would  have  thought  herself  very 
well  off  had  it  not  been  for  her  dislike  of  Harkness,  for 
which  one  reason  certainly  was  the  show  he  made  of  being 
in  love  with  her. 

Harkness  had  his  office  on  the  first  floor,  and  he  took 
dinner  at  the  hotel.  For  about  a  week  after  Eliza's  advent 
the  young  dentist  and  the  young  housekeeper  measured 
each  other  with  watchful  eyos,  a  measurement  for  which 
the  fact  that  they  crossed  each  other's  path  several  times  a 
day  gave  ample  opportunity.  Because  the  woman  had  the 
steadier  eyes  and  the  man  was  the  more  open-tempered, 
Eliza  gained  more  insight  into  Harkness's  character  than 
he  did  into  hers.  While  he,  to  use  his  own  phrase, 
"couldn't  reckon  her  up  the  least  mite  in  the  world,"  she 
perceived  that  under  his  variable  and  sensitive  nature  there 
was  a  strong  grip  of  purpose  upon  all  that  was  for  his  own 
interest  in  a  material  way;  but  having  discovered  this  vein 
of  calculating  selfishness,  mixed  with  much  of  the  purely 
idle  and  something  that  was  really  warmhearted,  she  be- 
came only  the  more  suspicious  of  his  intentions  towards 
herself,  and  summoned  the  whole  strength  of  her  nature  to 
oppose  him. 

She  said  to  him  one  day,  "I'm  surprised  to  hear  that 
you  go  about  telling  other  gentlemen  that  you  like  me.  I 
wonder  that  you're  not  ashamed." 

As  she  had  hitherto  been  silent,  he  was  surprised  at  this 
attack,  and  at  first  he  took  it  as  an  invitation  to  come  to 
terms. 

"I've  a  right-down,  hearty  admiration  for  you,  Miss 
White.  I  express  it  whenever  I  get  the  chance;  I'm  not 
ashamed  of  my  admiration." 

"But  I  am,"  said  Eliza,  indignantly.  "It's  very  unkind 
of  you." 

Harkness  looked  at  her,  failing  to  unravel  her  meaning. 

"  There  ain't  anything  a  young  lady  likes  better  than  to 


CHAP.  VIl] 


IVHAT  NECESS/ry  KNOWS 


207 


Vxl 


io 

Is 

It 


have  an  admirer.  She  mayn't  always  like  Aim,  but  she 
always  likes  him  to  be  admiring  of  her." 

However  true  this  philosophy  of  the  inner  secrets  of  the 
heart  might  be,  Eliza  did  not  admit  it  for  a  moment.  She 
denounced  his  behaviour,  but  it  was  clear,  as  the  saying  is, 
that  she  was  speaking  over  the  head  of  her  audience.  The 
youth  evidently  received  it  as  a  new  idea  that,  when  he 
had  spoken  only  in  her  praise,  she  could  seriously  object. 

"Why  now,"  he  burst  forth,  "if  any  young  lady  took  to 
admiring  me,  thinking  a  heap  of  me  and  talking  about  me 
to  her  friends,  d'ye  think  I'd  be  cut  up?  I'd  be  pleased 
to  that  extent  I'd  go  about  on  the  broad  grin.  I  mightn't 
want  to  marry  just  yet;  and  when  I  did, I  mightn't ^JossiftZy 
take  up  with  her;  but  I  can  tell  you,  as  soon  as  I  was  dis- 
posed to  marry,  I'd  have  a  soft  side  towards  her;  I'd  cer- 
tainly think  it  right  to  give  her  the  first  chance  in  consid- 
ering who  I'd  have.  And  that's  all  I  ask  of  you,  Miss 
White.  You  won't  have  anything  to  do  with  me  (why,  I 
can't  think),  but  I  just  give  it  out  that  I'm  an  admirer, 
and  I  hang  on,  hoping  that  you'll  think  better  of  it." 

He  was  good-natured  about  it,  perfectly  open  apparently, 
and  at  the  same  time  evidently  so  confident  that  his  was 
the  sensible  view  of  the  matter  that  Eliza  could  only  repeat 
her  prohibition  less  hopefully. 

A  little  later  she  found  that  he  had  quelled  a  revolt 
against  her  authority  that  was  simmering  in  the  minds  of 
the  table-maids.  She  went  at  once  to  the  door  that  was 
decorated  with  the  dentist's  sign. 

It  was  opened  by  Harkness  in  the  bowing  manner  with 
which  he  was  wont  to  open  to  patients.  When  he  saw 
Eliza's  expression  he  straightened  himself. 

"  I  want  to  know  what  you've  been  saying  to  those  girls 
downstairs  about  me." 

"  Well  now, "  said  he,  a  little  flustered,  "  nothiLg  that 
you'd  dislike  to  hear." 

"Do  you  think,"  she  went  on  with  calm  severity,  "that 
I  can't  manage  my  affairs  without  your  help?" 


-*HIP 


208 


WHAT  NEC  ESS  I  TV  KNOWS 


[book  II 


I 


"By  no  means."  His  emphasis  implied  that  he  readily 
perceived  which  answer  would  give  least  offence.  "  Same 
time,  if  I  can  make  your  path  more  flowery — fail  to  see 
objections  to  such  a  course." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  trouble  yourself." 

"It  wasn't  the  least  mite  of  trouble,"  he  assured  her. 
"Why,  those  girls  downstairs,  whenever  I  roll  my  eyes, 
they  just  fly  to  do  the  thing  I  want." 

"Do  you  think  that  is  nice?"  asked  Eliza. 

"  Lovely — so  convenient! " 

"I  do  not  like  it." 

"It  don't  follow  that  whenever  they  roll  their  eyes,  I  do 
what  they  want.  Jemima!  no.  They  might  roll  them, 
and  roll  them,  and  roll  them,  right  round  oo  the  back  of 
their  heads;  'twouldn't  have  an  atom  of  effect  on  me." 

He  waited  to  see  some  result  from  this  avowal,  but  Eliza 
was  looking  at  him  as  coldly  as  ever. 

"In  that  respect,"  he  added,  "there  ain't  no  one  that  in- 
terferes with  your  ^vevoga-tive." 

Eliza  looked  as  if  he  had  spoken  in  a  foreign  tongue. 
"I  do  not  understand,"  she  said,  and  in  this  she  told  a  lie, 
but  she  told  it  so  successfully  that  he  really  did  not  know 
whether  she  had  understood,  or  whether  it  behooved  him  to 
speak  more  plainly. 

Before  he  could  make  up  his  mind,  she  had  taken  her 
departure.  When  she  was  gone  he  stood  looking  darkly, 
wishing  he  knew  how  to  hasten  the  day  when  she  should 
change  her  aspect  to  him. 


CHAPTEE  VIII. 


When  Harkness  found  that  he  was  always  defied  by  Eliza 
he  grew  gloomy,  and  was  quiet  for  a  time.  One  day,  how- 
ever, he  recovered  his  former  cheerfulness.  He  seemed, 
indeed,  to  be  in  high  spirits.  When  he  saw  his  time,  he 
sought  talk  with  Eliza.  He  did  not  now  affect  to  be  lively, 
but  rather  wore  a  manner  of  marked  solemnity. 


CHAP,  viii]  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOH'S 


209 


la 


Le 


"Can  you  read  the  French  language?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  she  answered. 

"  That's  unfortunate,  for  I'm  not  a  good  hand  at  it  myself; 
but  I've  found  a  bit  of  news  in  a  French  paper  here  that  is 
real  interesting  and  important." 

He  unfurled  a  crushed  copy  of  a  Quebec  journal  a  few 
days  old.  "It  says,"  he  began  translating,  that  "there's 
a  man  called  Cameron,  who's  been  nicknamed  Lazarus 
Cameron,  because  he  seemed  to  be  dead  and  came  to  life 
again." 

He  looked  hard  at  the  paper,  as  if  needing  a  few  moments 
to  formulate  further  translation. 

"Do  go  on,"  said  Eliza,  with  manifest  impatience. 

"Why  now,  you're  real  interested,  Miss  White." 

"Anybody  would  want  to  know  what  you're  at." 

"  Well,  but,  considering  it's  any  one  so  composed  as  you, 
Miss  White,  it's  real  pleasant  to  see  you  so  keen." 

"I'm  keen  for  my  work.  I  haven't  time,  like  you,  to 
stand  here  all  day." 

All  this  time  he  had  been  looking  at  the  paper.  "  What 
I've  read  so  far,  you  see,  is  what  I've  told  you  before  as 
having  happened  to  my  knowledge  at  a  place  called  Turrifs 
Station." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"  No,"  and  he  went  on  translating.  "  'Whether  this  man 
was  dead  or  not,  he  is  now  alive,  but  partiaHy  deaf  and 
blind;  and  whether  he  has  ever  seen  anything  of  the  next 
world  or  not,  he  has  now  no  interest  in  this  one,  but  spends 
his  whole  time  praying  or  preaching,  living  on  crusts,  and 
walking  great  distances  in  solitaiy  places.  He  has  lately 
appeared  in  the  suburbs  of  this  city '  (that  is  Quebec)  'and 
seems  to  be  a  street-preacher  of  no  ordinary  power.'  " 

Harkness  stopped  with  an  air  of  importance. 

"Is  that  all?"  asked  Eliza. 

He  gave  her  another  paper,  in  Eng""  to  read.  This 
contained  a  longer  and  more  sensational  ant  of  the  same 
tale,  and  with  this  diiference,  that  instead  of  giving  the 


n     \ 


J.i. 


i 


i 


i 


(I 


210 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  II 


simple  and  sentimental  view  of  the  French  writer,  the  Eng- 
lish journalist  jeered  greatly,  and  also  stated  that  the  nick- 
name Lazarus  had  been  given  in  derision,  and  that  the  man, 
who  was  either  mad  or  an  imposter,  had  been  hooted,  pelted, 
and  even  beaten  in  the  streets. 
'     "  Is  that  all?  "  she  asked. 

"  Unless  you  can  tell  me  any  more."  He  did  not  say  this 
lightly. 

"Is  that  all?"  she  asked  again,  as  if  his  words  had  been 
unmeaning. 

"Well  now,  I  think  that's  enough.  'Tisn't  every  day 
this  poor  earth  of  ours  is  favoured  by  hearing  sermons  from 
one  as  has  been  t'other  side  of  dying.  I  think  it  would 
be  more  worth  while  to  hear  him  than  to  go  to  church, 
I  do." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  she  asked  with  some  asperity, 
"that  you  really  believe  it?" 

"  I  tell  you  I  saw  the  first  part  of  it  myself,  and  unless 
you  can  give  me  a  good  reason  for  not  believing  the  second, 
I'm  inclined  to  swallow  it  down  whole,  Miss  Cameron — I 
beg  your  pardon.  White,  I  mean.  One  gets  real  confused 
in  names,  occasionally." 

"Well,"  said  Eliza,  composedly,  preparing  to  leave  him, 
"  I  can't  say  I  understand  it,  Mr.  Harkness,  but  I  must  say 
it  sounds  too  hard  for  me  to  believe." 

He  looked  after  her  with  intense  curiosity  in  his  eyes, 
and  in  the  next  few  days  returned  to  the  subject  in  her 
presence  again  and  again,  repeating  to  her  all  the  comments 
that  were  made  on  the  story  in  the  bar-room,  but  he  could 
not  rouse  her  from  an  appearance  of  cheerful  unconcern. 

Another  item  appeared  in  the  papers ;  the  old  man  called 
Cameron  had  been  brought  before  the  magistrates  at  Quebec 
for  some  street  disturbance  of  which,  he  appeared  to  have 
been  the  innocent  cause. 

Upon  this  Cyril  Harkness  took  a  whim  into  his  head, 
which  he  made  known  to  all  his  friends  in  the  place,  and 
then  to  Eliza — a  most  extraordinary  whim,  for  it  was  noth- 


CHAP.  VIII]  IVHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


211 


If 


ts 
id 


ing  less  than  to  go  down  to  Quebec,  and  take  the  street 
preacher  under  his  own  protection. 

"I  feel  as  if  I  had  a  sort  of  responsibility,"  said  he,  "for 
I  was  at  the  very  beginning  of  this  whole  affair,  and  saw 
the  house  where  he  had  lived,  and  I  got  real  well  acquainted 
with  his  partner,  who  no  doubt  had  ill-treated  him.  I  saw 
the  place  where  a  daughter  of  his  perished  too,  and  now  he's 
got  so  near  up  here  as  this,  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  that  old 
man  being  ill-treated  and  having  no  one  to  look  after  him. 
I'm  going  right  down  to  Quebec  by  the  Saturday-night 
train,  an'  I'll  be  back  Monday  morning  if  I  can^jersuade 
the  old  gentleman  to  come  right  here  where  I  can  look  after 
him.  I  reckon  there's  room  in  the  Harmon  house  for  both 
him  and  me,  an'  I  reckon,  if  he's  got  anything  particularly 
powerful  to  say  in  the  way  of  religion,  it  won't  do  this  little 
town  any  harm  to  hear  it." 

He  had  said  all  this  to  Eliza. 

"Don't!"  she  cried  in  great  surprise,  but  with  deter- 
mined opposition.  "  I  shall  never  think  you  have  any  sense 
again  if  you  do  such  a  foolish  and  wicked  thing." 

"  Why  now.  Miss  White,  as  to  losing  your  good  opinion, 
I  didn't  know  as  I'd  been  fortunate  enough  to  get  it  yet; 
and  as  to  its  being  wicked,  I  don't  see  how  you  make  that 
out." 

"It's  meddling  with  what  you  have  nothing  to  do  with." 

"Well  now,  what  will  you  give  me  not  to  go?  "  He  said 
these  words,  as  he  said  most  of  his  words,  in  a  languid, 
lingering  way,  but  he  turned  and  faced  her  with  an  abrupt 
glance. 

He  and  she  were  standing  at  the  head  of  the  first  stair- 
case in  the  unfurnished  corridor.  It  was  the  middle  of  the 
afternoon ;  no  one  chanced  to  be  passing.  He,  light-moving, 
pretty  fellow  as  he  was,  leaned  on  the  wall  and  glanced  at 
her  sharply.  She  stood  erect,  massive,  not  only  in  her 
form,  but  in  the  strength  of  will  that  she  opposed  to  his, 
and  a  red  flush  slowly  mantled  her  pale,  immobile  face. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  want  of  me, "  she  said.     "  Money's 


212 


WHAT  NEC  ESS /TV  KA'OIVS 


[BOOIC  II 


the  thing  you  love,  and  I  haven't  any  money;  but  whether 
I  had  or  not,  I  would  give  you  nothing.'^  She  turned  at  the 
last  word. 

Then  Harkness,  taking  the  chiding  and  jeers  of  all  his 
companions  good-naturedly,  and  giving  them  precisely  the 
same  excuses  that  he  had  given  to  Eliza,  started  for  Quebec. 

What  was  more  remarkable,  he  actually  brought  back  tlie 
old  preacher  with  him — brought  him,  or  rather  led  him,  to 
the  Harmon  house,  for  the  old  man  was  seemingly  quite 
passive.  This  was  an  accomplished  fact  when  Eliza  and 
Harkness  met  again. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


The  day  after  his  coming,  and  the  next,  for  some  reason 
the  old  stranger  called  Cameron  remained  in  the  brick  house 
to  which  Harkness  had  brought  him.  The  young  man, 
impatient  for  novelty,  if  for  nothing  else,  began  to  wonder 
if  he  had  sunk  into  some  stupor  of  mind  from  which  he 
would  not  emerge.  He  had  heard  of  him  as  a  preacher,  and 
as  the  conceptions  of  ordinary  minds  are  made  up  only  of 
the  ideas  directly  presented  to  them,  he  had  a  vague  notion 
that  this  old  man  continually  preached.  As  it  was,  he  went 
to  his  work  at  the  hotel  on  the  third  morning,  and  still  left 
his  strange  guest  in  the  old  house,  walking  about  in  an 
empty  room,  munching  some  bread  with  his  keen  white 
teetli,  his  briglit  eyes  half  shut  under  their  bushy  brows. 

Harkness  came  to  the  hotel  disconcerted,  and,  meeting 
Eliza  near  the  dining-room,  took  off  his  hat  in  sullen 
silence.  Several  men  in  the  room  called  after  him  as  he 
passed.  "How's  your  dancing  bear,  Harkness?"  "How's 
the  ghost  you're  befriending?"  "Ht)w's  your  coffin-gen- 
tleman? "  There  was  a  laugh  that  rang  loudly  in  the  large, 
half -empty  room. 

After  Harkness  had  despatched  two  morning  visitors, 
liowever,  and  was  looking  out  of  his  window,  as  was  usual 


CHAP.  IX] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


213 


?n 
he 

's 
lu- 
re, 

fs, 
al 


in  his  idle  intervals,  he  noticed  several  errand-boys  gazing 
up  the  road,  and  in  a  minute  an  (advancing  group  came 
within  his  view,  old  Cameron  walking  down  the  middle  of 
the  street  hitting  the  ground  nervously  with  his  stafP,  and 
behind  him  children  of  various  sizes  following  rather 
timidly.  Every  now  and  then  the  old  man  emitted  some 
sound — a  shout,  a  word  of  some  sort,  not  easily  understood. 
It  was  this  that  had  attracted  the  following  of  children,  and 
was  very  quickly  attracting  the  attention  of  every  one  in 
the  street.  One  or  two  men,  and  a  woman  with  a  shawl 
over  her  head,  were  coming  down  the  sidewalks  the  same 
way  and  at  about  the  same  pace  as  the  central  group,  and 
TIarkness  more  than  suspected  that  they  had  diverged  from 
the  proper  course  of  their  morning  errands  out  of  curiosity. 
He  took  more  interest  in  the  scene  than  seemed  consistent 
with  his  slight  connection  with  the  principal  actor.  He 
made  an  excited  movement  toward  his  door,  and  his  hand 
actually  trembled  as  he  opened  it.  Eliza  was  usually  about 
the  passages  at  this  time  of  day.     He  called  her  name. 

She  put  her  head  over  the  upper  bannister. 

"Come  down  and  see  Lazarus  Cameron!  " 

"I'll  come  in  a  minute." 

He  saw  through  the  railing  of  the  bannisters  the  move- 
ment of  some  linen  she  was  folding. 

"He'll  be  past  in  a  minute."  Harkness's  voice  betrayed 
his  excitement  more  than  he  desired. 

Eliza  dropped  the  linen  and  came  downstairs  rather 
quickly.  Harkness  returned  to  his  window;  she  came  up 
beside  him.  The  inner  window  was  open,  only  one  pane 
was  between  them  and  the  outer  air.  In  yards  all  round 
cocks  were  crowing,  as,  on  a  mild  day  in  the  Canadian 
March,  cocks  will  crow  continually.  Light  snow  of  the 
last  downfall  lay  on  the  opposite  roofs,  and  made  the  hills 
just  seen  behind  them  very  white.  The  whole  winter's  piles 
of  snow  lay  in  the  ridges  between  the  footpaths  and  the 
road.  Had  it  not  been  that  some  few  of  the  buildings  were 
of  brick,  and  that  on  one  or  two  of  the  wooden  ones  the 


214 


IVI/AT  NECESSFTY  KNOWS 


[book  II 


1 


i    !   ; 


white  paint  was  worn  off,  the  wide  street  woukl  have  been 
a  picture  painted  only  in  different  tones  of  white.  But  the 
clothes  of  the  people  were  of  dark  colour,  and  the  one 
vehicle  in  sight  was  a  blue  box-sleigh,  drawn  by  a  shaggy 
pony. 

Eliza  was  conscious  of  the  picture  only  as  one  is  conscious 
of  surroundings  upon  which  the  eye  does  not  focus.  Her 
sight  fastened  on  the  old  man,  now  almost  opposite  the  hotel. 
He  was  of  a  broad,  powerful  frame  that  had  certainly  once 
possessed  great  strength.  Even  now  he  was  strong;  he 
stooped  a  little,  but  he  held  his  head  erect,  and  the  well- 
formed,  prominent  features  of  his  weather-beaten  face 
showed  forth  a  tremendous  force  of  some  sort ;  even  at  that 
distance  the  brightness  of  his  eyes  was  visible  under  bushy 
brows,  grey  as  his  hair.  His  clothes  were  of  the  most 
ordinary  sort,  old  and  faded.  His  cap  was  of  the  com- 
monest fur;  he  grasped  it  now  in  his  hand,  going  bare- 
headed. Tapping  the  ground  with  his  staff,  he  walked  with 
nervous  haste,  looking  upward  the  while,  as  blind  men  often 
look. 

Harkness  did  not  look  much  out  of  the  window;  he  was 
inspecting  Eliza's  face:  and  when  she  turned  to  him  he 
gave  her  a  glance  that,  had  she  been  a  weaker  woman,  would 
have  been  translated  into  many  words — question  and  invec- 
tive; but  her  silence  dominated  him.  It  was  a  look  also 
that,  had  he  been  a  stronger  man,  he  would  have  kept  to 
himself,  for  it  served  no  purpose  but  to  betray  that  there 
was  some  undercurrent  of  antagonism  to  her  in  his  mind. 

"  You're  very  queer  to-day,  Mr.  Harkness,"  she  remarked, 
and  with  that  she  withdrew. 

But  when  the  door  closed  she  was  not  really  gone  to  the 
young  man.  He  saw  her  as  clearly  with  his  mind  as  a 
moment  before  he  had  seen  her  with  his  eyes,  and  he  pon- 
dered now  the  expression  on  her  face  when  she  looked  out 
of  the  window.  It  told  him,  however,  absolutely  nothing 
of  the  secret  he  was  trying  to  wring  from  her. 

There  was  no  square  in  Chellaston,  no  part  of  the  long 


CHAP.  IX] 


IVHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


215 


lie 
a 
li- 
lt 


street  much  wider  than  any  other  or  more  convenient  as  a 
public  lounging  place.  Here,  in  front  of  the  hotel,  was 
perliaps  the  most  open  spot,  and  Harkness  hoped  the  old 
man  would  make  a  stand  here  and  preach;  but  he  turned 
aside  and  went  down  a  small  side  street,  so  Harkness,  who 
had  no  desire  to  identify  himself  too  publicly  with  his 
strange  jpro^^gr^,  was  forced  to  leave  to  the  curiosity  of  others 
the  observation  of  his  movements. 

The  curiosity  of  people  in  the  street  also  seemed  to  abate. 
The  more  respectable  class  of  people  are  too  proud  to  show 
interest  in  the  same  way  tliat  gaping  children  show  it,  and 
most  people  in  this  village  belonged  to  the  more  respectable 
class.  Those  who  had  come  to  doors  or  windows  on  the 
street  retired  from  them  just  as  Harkness  had  done ;  those 
out  in  the  street  went  on  their  ways,  with  the  exception  of 
two  men  of  the  more  demonstrative  sort,  who  went  and 
looked  down  the  alley  after  the  stranger,  and  called  out 
jestingly  to  some  one  in  it. 

Then  the  old  man  stopped,  and,  with  his  face  still 
upturned,  as  if  blind  to  everything  but  pure  light,  took  up 
his  position  on  one  side  of  the  narrow  street.  He  had  only 
gone  some  forty  paces  down  it.  A  policeman,  coming  up  in 
front  of  the  hotel,  looked  on,  listening  to  the  jesters. 
Then  he  and  they  drew  a  little  nearer,  the  children  who  had 
followed  stood  round,  one  man  appeared  at  the  other  end  of 
the  alley.  On  either  side  the  houses  were  high  and  the 
windows  few,  but  high  up  in  the  hotel  there  was  a  small 
window  that  lighted  a  linen  press,  and  at  that  small  win- 
dow, with  the  door  of  the  closet  locked  on  the  inside,  Eliza 
stood  unseen,  and  looked  and  listened. 

The  voice  of  the  preacher  was  loud,  unnatural  also  in  its 
rising  and  falling,  the  voice  of  a  deaf  man  who  could  not 
hear  his  own  tones.  His  words  were  not  what  any  one 
expected.     This  was  the  sermon  he  preached: 

"In  a  little  while  He  that  shall  come  will  not  tarry. 
Many  shall  say  to  Him  in  that  day,  'Lord,  Lord,'  and  He 
shall  say,  'Depart  from  me;  I  never  knew  you.' "    . 


'; 


I'ii 


■( 


■fl 


it 


216 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KAVIVS 


[book  II 


His  voice,  which  had  become  very  vehement,  suddenly 
sank,  and  he  was  silent. 

"  Upon  my  word,  that's  queer,"  said  one  of  the  men  who 
stood  near  the  policeman. 

"He's  staring  mad,"  said  the  other  man  in  plain  clothes. 
"He  should  be  in  the  asylum." 

This  second  man  went  away,  but  the  first  speaker  and  the 
policeman  drew  still  nearer,  and  the  congregation  did  not 
diminish,  for  the  man  who  left  was  replaced  by  the  poor 
woman  with  the  checked  shawl  over  her  liead  who  had  lirst 
followed  the  preacher  up  the  street,  and  who  now  appeared 
standing  listening  at  a  house  corner.  She  was  well  known 
in  the  village  as  the  wife  of  a  drunkard. 

The  old  man  began  speaking  again  in  softer  voice,  but 
there  was  the  same  odd  variety  of  tones  which  had  exciting 
effect. 

"Why  do  you  defraud  your  brother?  Why  do  you  judge 
your  brother?  Why  do  you  set  at  nought  your  brother? 
Inasmuch  as  you  do  it  unto  the  least  of  these,  you  do  it  to 
Him." 

His  voice  died  away  again.  His  strong  face  had  become 
illumined,  and  he  brought  down  his  gaze  toward  the  lis- 
teners. 

"  If  any  man  shall  do  His  will  he  shall  know  of  the  doc- 
trine. He  will  know — yes,  know — for  there  is  no  other 
knowledge  as  sure  as  this." 

Then,  in  such  a  colloquial  way  that  it  almost  seemed  as 
if  the  listeners  themselves  had  asked  the  question,  he  said: 
"What  shall  we  do  that  we  may  work  the  works  of  God?" 

And  he  smiled  upon  them,  and  held  out  his  hands  as  if  in 
blessing,  and  lifted  up  his  face  again  to  heaven,  and  cried, 
"  This  is  the  work  of  God,  that  ye  believe  on  Him  Whom 
He  hath  sent." 

As  if  under  some  spell,  the  few  to  whom  he  had  spoken 
stood  still,  till  the  preacher  slowly  shifted  himself  and 
began  to  walk  away  by  the  road  he  had  come. 

Some  of  the  children  went  after  him  as  before.     The 


CHAP.  X] 


WHAT  NEC  ESS /TV  k'NOlVS 


ai7 


poor  woman  disappeared  behind  the  house  she  had  been 
standing  against.  Tlie  policeman  and  his  companion  began 
to  talk,  looking  the  while  at  the  object  of  their  discussion. 
Eliza,  in  the  closet,  leaned  her  head  against  the  pile  of 
lin'^n  on  an  upper  shelf,  and  was  quite  still  for  some  time. 


CHAPTER  X. 


I 


Principal  Treniiolme  had  been  gone  from  Chellaston  a 
day  or  two  on  business.  When  he  returned  one  evening,  he 
got  into  his  smart  little  sleigh  which  was  in  waiting  at  the 
railway  station,  and  was  driving  himself  home,  when  his 
attention  was  arrested  and  his  way  blocked  by  a  crowd  in 
front  of  the  hotel.  He  did  not  force  a  way  for  his  horse, 
but  drew  up,  listening  and  looking.  It  was  a  curious  pic- 
ture. The  wide  street  of  snow  and  the  houses  were  dusky 
with  night,  except  where  light  chanced  to  glow  in  doorways 
and  windows.  The  collection  of  people  was  motley.  Above, 
all  the  sky  seemed  brought  into  insistent  notice  as  a  roof 
or  covering,  partly  because  pale  pink  streamers  of  flicker- 
ing northern  light  were  passing  over  it,  partly  because  the 
leader  of  the  crowd,  an  old  man,  by  looking  upwards,  drew 
the  gaze  of  all  to  follow  whither  his  had  gone. 

Treniiolme  heard  his  loud  voice  calling:  "Behold  He 
shall  come  again,  and  every  eye  shall  look  on  Him  Whom 
they  have  pierced.  Blessed  are  those  servants  whom  their 
Lord  when  He  cometh  shall  find  watching." 

The  scene  was  foreign  to  life  in  Chellaston.  Trenholme, 
who  had  no  mind  to  stand  on  the  skirts  of  the  crowd,  thrust 
his  reins  into  the  hand  of  his  rustic  groom,  and  went  up  the 
broad  steps  of  the  hotel,  knowing  that  he  would  there  have 
his  inquiries  most  quickly  answered. 

In  the  bar-room  about  thirty  men  were  crowded  about  the 
windows,  looking  at  the  preacher,  not  listening,  for  the 
double  glass  shut  out  the  preacher's  voice.     They  were 


9l8 


WHAT  NEC  ESS /TV  KNOWS 


[book  II 


interested,  debating  loudly  among  themselves,  and  when 
they  saw  who  was  coming  up  the  steps,  they  said  to  each 
other  and  the  landlord,  "Put  it  to  the  l^rincipal."  There 
were  men  of  all  sorts  in  this  group,  most  of  them  very 
respectable;  but  when  Trenholme  stood  inside  the  door,  his 
soft  hat  shading  his  shaven  face,  his  fur-lined  driving  coat 
lying  back  from  the  finer  cloth  it  covered,  he  was  a  very 
different  sort  of  man  from  any  of  them.  He  did  not  know 
that  it  was  merely  by  the  influence  of  this  difference  (of 
which  perhaps  he  was  less  conscious  than  any  of  them)  that 
they  were  provoked  to  question  him.  Hutchins,  the  land- 
lord, sat  at  the  back  of  the  room  on  his  high  office  chair. 

"  Good  evening.  Principal,"  said  he.  "  Glad  to  see  you  in 
the  place  again,  sir.  Have  you  heard  of  a  place  called 
Turrifs  Road  Station?     'Tain't  on  our  map." 

Trenholme  gave  the  questioner  a  severe  glance  of  inquiry. 
The  scene  outside,  and  his  proposed  inquiry  concerning  it, 
passed  from  his  mind,  for  he  had  no  means  of  divining  that 
this  question  referred  to  it.  The  place  named  was  known 
to  him  only  by  his  brother's  letter.  The  men,  he  saw,  were 
in  a  rough  humour,  and  because  of  the  skeleton  in  his  closet 
he  jumped  to  the  thought  that  something  had  transpired 
concerning  his  brother,  something  that  caused  them  to  jeer. 
He  did  not  stop  to  think  what  it  might  be.  His  moral 
nature  stiffened  itself  to  stand  for  truth  and  his  brother  at 
all  costs. 

"I  know  the  place,"  he  said. 

His  words  had  a  stern  impressiveness  which  startled  his 
hearers.  They  were  only  playing  idly  with  the  pros  and 
cons  of  a  newspaper  tale;  but  this  man,  it  would  seem, 
treated  the  matter  very  seriously. 

Hutchins  had  no  desire  to  annoy,  but  he  did  not  know 
how  to  desist  from  further  question,  and,  supposing  that  the 
story  of  Cameron  was  known,  he  said  in  a  more  ingratiating 
way: 

"Well,  but,  sir,  you  don't  want  us  to  believe  the  crazy 
tale  of  the  station  hand  there,  that  he  saw  the  dead  walk?  " 


CHAP.  X] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


219 


Again  there  was  that  in  Trenlioliue's  manner  which 
astouislied  his  liearers.  Had  they  had  the  slightest  notion 
they  were  offending  him,  they  woiikl  liave  known  it  was  an 
air  of  offence,  but,  not  suspecting  that,  tliey  could  only 
judge  that  he  thought  the  subject  a  solemn  one. 

"  I  would  have  you  believe  his  word,  certainly.  He  is  a 
man  of  honour." 

A  facetious  man  here  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth  and 
winked  to  his  companions.  "You've  had  private  informa- 
tion to  that  effect,  I  suppose,  Principal." 

Very  haughtily  Trenholme  assented. 

He  had  not  been  in  the  room  more  than  a  few  moments 
when  all  this  had  passed.  He  was  handed  a  newspaper, 
which  gave  still  another  account  of  tlie  remote  incident 
which  was  now  at  last  tickling  the  ears  of  the  public,  and 
he  was  told  that  the  man  Cameron  was  supj)0sed  to  be  the 
preacher  who  was  now  without.  He  heard  what  part  Hark- 
ness  had  played,  and  he  saw  that  his  brother's  name  was 
not  mentioned  in  the  public  print,  was  apparently  not 
known.  He  took  a  little  pains  to  be  genial  (a  thing  he  was 
certainly  not  in  the  habit  of  doing  in  that  room),  in  order 
to  dissipate  any  impression  his  offended  manner  might  have 
given,  and  went  home. 

It  is  not  often  a  man  estimates  at  all  correctly  the  effect 
of  his  own  words  and  looks ;  he  would  need  to  be  a  trained 
actor  to  do  this,  and,  happily,  most  men  are  not  their  own 
looking-glasses.  Trenholme  thought  he  had  behaved  in  a 
surly  and  stiff  manner,  and,  had  the  subject  been  less 
unpleasant,  he  would  rather  have  explained  at  once  where 
and  who  his  brother  was.  This  was  his  remembrance  of 
his  call  at  the  hotel,  but  the  company  there  saw  it  differ- 
ently. 

No  sooner  had  he  gone  than  the  facetious  man  launched 
his  saw-like  voice  again  upon  the  company.  "  He  had  pri- 
vate information  on  the  subject,  lie  had." 

"There's  on'^,  sure  thing,"  said  a  stout,  consequential 
man  J  "lie  believes  the  whole  thing,  the  Principal  does." 


m 


III 


•,  1 


I 

J-.;' 

ii 

U    \ 


It  . 


i 


220 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  II 


I 


I 


fij 


A  commercial  traveller  who  was  acquainted  with  the 
place  put  in  his  remark.  "  There  isn't  a  man  in  town  that 
I  wouldn't  have  expected  to  see  gulled  sooner." 

To  which  a  thin,  religious  man,  who,  before  Trenholme 
entered,  had  leaned  to  the  opinion  that  there  were  more 
things  in  the  world  than  they  could  understand,  now  retorted 
that  it  was  more  likely  that  the  last  speaker  was  gulled 
himself.  Principal  Trenholme,  he  asserted,  wasn't  a  man 
to  put  his  faith  in  anything  without  proofs. 

Chellaston  was  not  a  very  gossiping  place.  For  the  most 
part  the  people  had  too  much  to  do,  and  were  too  intent 
upon  their  own  business,  to  take  much  trouble  to  retail  what 
they  chanced  to  hear;  but  there  are  some  things  which,  as 
the  facetious  man  observed,  the  dead  in  their  graves  would 
gossip  about  if  they  could;  and  one  of  these  themes,  accord- 
ing to  him,  was  that  T^rincipal  Trenholme  believed  there 
had  been  something  supernatural  about  the  previous  life  of 
the  old  preacher.  The  story  went  about,  impressing  more 
particularly  the  female  portion  of  the  community,  but  cer- 
tainly not  without  influence  upon  the  males  also.  Portly 
menj  who  a  week  before  would  have  thought  themselves 
compromised  by  giving  a  serious  thought  to  the  narrative, 
now  stood  still  in  the  street  to  get  the  chance  of  hearing  the 
preacher,  and  felt  that  in  doing  so  they  were  wrapped  in  all 
the  respectability  of  the  cloth  of  Trenholme 's  coats,  and 
standing  firm  on  the  letters  of  his  Oxford  degree  and  upon 
all  the  learning  of  the  New  College. 

They  did  not  believe  the  story  themselves.  No,  there 
was  a  screw  loose  somewhere;  but  Principal  Trenholme  had 
some  definite  knowledge  of  the  matter.  The  old  man  had 
been  in  a  trance,  a  very  long  trance,  to  say  the  least  of  it, 
and  had  got  up  a  changed  creature.  Principal  Trenholme 
was  not  prepared  to  scout  the  idea  that  he  had  been  nearer 
to  death  than  falls  to  the  lot  of  most  living  men. 

It  will  be  seen  that  the  common  sense  of  the  speakers 
shaped  crude  rumour  to  suit  themselves.  Had  they  left  it 
crude,  it  would  have  died.     It  is  upon  the  nice  sense  of  the 


1 
t 
\ 
a 
I 
a 
a 


CHAP.  XI] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


221 


probable  and  possible  in  talkative  men  that  mad  rumour 
feeds. 

As  for  Trenholme,  he  became  more  or  less  aware  of  the 
report  that  had  gone  out  about  his  private  knowledge  of  old 
Cameron,  but  it  was  less  rather  than  more.  The  scholastic 
life  of  the  college  was  quite  apart  from  the  life  of  the  vil- 
lage, and  in  the  village  those  who  talked  most  about  Cam- 
eron were  the  least  likely  to  talk  to  Trenholme  on  any- 
subject.  His  friends  were  not  those  who  were  concerned 
with  the  rumour;  but  even  when  he  was  taxed  with  it,  the 
whole  truth  that  he  knew  was  no  apparent  contradiction. 
He  wrote  to  Alec,  making  further  inquiries,  but  Alec  had 
retreated  again  many  miles  from  the  post.  To  be  silent 
and  ignore  the  matter  seemed  to  be  his  only  course. 

Thus  it  happened  that,  because  Harkness  housed  him  in 
the  hope  of  working  upon  Eliza,  and  because  Trenholme 
happened  to  have  had  a  brother  at  Turrifs  Station,  the 
strange  old  preacher  found  a  longer  resting  place  and  a 
more  attentive  hearing  in  the  village  of  Chellaston  than  he 
would  have  been  likely  to  find  elsewhere. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


There  was  in  Chellaston  a  very  small  and  poor  congre- 
gation of  the  sect  called  Adventists.  The  sect  was  founded 
by  one  Miller,  a  native  of  New  York  State,  a  great  preacher 
and  godly  man,  who,  from  study  of  prophecy,  became  con- 
vinced that  the  Second  Coming  of  the  Lord  would  take  place 
in  the  year  1843.  He  obtained  a  large  following ;  and  when 
the  time  passed  and  his  expectation  was  not  fulfilled,  this 
body,  instead  of  melting  away,  became  gradually  greater, 
and  developed  into  a  numerous  and  rather  influential  sect. 
In  the  year  of  Miller's  prediction,  1843,  there  had  been 
among  his  followers  great  e'  utement,  awe  and  expectation ; 
and  the  set  time  passed,  and  the  prediction  had  no  apparent 


III 


^ 


is  r'      ''■ 


^:  i   I 


\ 


323 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  II 


fulfilment,  but  lay  to  every  one's  sight,  like  a  feeble  writ- 
ing upon  the  sands  of  fantasy,  soon  effaced  by  the  ever 
flowing  tide  of  natural  law  and  orderly  progression.  Now, 
that  this  was  the  case  and  that  yet  this  body  of  believers 
did  not  diminish  but  increased,  did  not  become  demoralised 
but  grew  in  moral  strength,  did  not  lose  faith  but  continued 
to  cherish  a  more  ardent  hope  and  daily  expectation  of  the 
Divine  appearing,  is  no  doubt  due  to  the  working  of  some 
law  which  we  do  not  understand,  and  which  it  would  there- 
fore be  unscientific  to  pronounce  upon. 

The  congregation  of  Adventists  in  Chellaston,  however, 
was  not  noticeable  for  size  or  influence.  Some  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood did  not  even  know  that  this  congregation  existed, 
until  it  put  forth  its  hand  and  took  to  itself  the  old  preacher 
who  was  called  Lazarus  Cameron.  They  understood  his  lan- 
guage as  others  did  not;  they  believed  that  he  had  come 
with  a  message  for  them;  they  often  led  him  into  their 
meeting-place  and  into  their  houses ;  and  he,  perhaps  merely 
falling  into  the  mechanical  habit  of  going  where  he  had  been 
led,  appeared  in  his  own  fashion  tr  consort  with  them. 

There  was  something  weird  about  the  old  preacher, 
although  he  was  healthy,  vigorous,  and  kindly,  clean- 
looking  in  body  and  soul ;  but  the  aspect  of  any  one  is  in 
the  eye  of  the  beholder.  This  man,  whose  mind  was  blank 
except  upon  one  theme,  whose  senses  seemed  lost  except  at 
rare  times,  when  awakened  perhaps  by  an  effort  of  his  will, 
or  perhaps  by  an  unbidden  wave  of  psychical  sympathy  with 
some  one  to  whom  he  was  drawn  by  unseen  union,  awoke  a 
certain  feeling  of  sensational  interest  in  most  people  when 
they  approached  him.  The  public  were  in  the  main  divided 
into  two  classes  in  their  estimate  of  him — those  who  felt 
the  force  of  his  religion,  and  argued  therefrom  tb  .t  his 
opinions  were  to  be  respected ;  and  those  who  believed  that 
his  mind  was  ins.une,  and  argued  therefrom  that  his  religion 
was  either  a  fancy  or  a  farce.  At  first  there  was  a  great 
deal  of  talk  about  whether  he  should  be  put  in  a  madhouse 
or  not;  some  called  Harkness  a  philanthropist,  and  others 


CHAP.  XII]  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


223 


called  him  a  meddling  fellow.  Soon,  very  soon,  there  was 
less  talk:  that  which  is  everybody's  business  is  nobody's 
business.  Harkness  continued  to  befriend  him  in  the  mat- 
ter of  food  and  lodging;  the  old  man  grew  to  be  at  home  in 
the  Harmon  house  and  its  neglected  surroundings.  When 
the  will  to  do  so  seized  him,  he  went  into  the  village  and 
lifted  up  his  voice,  and  preached  the  exactions  of  the  love 
of  the  Son  of  God,  proclaiming  that  He  would  come  again, 
and  that  quickly. 

The  winter  days  had  grown  very  long;  the  sun  had  passed 
the  vernal  equinox,  and  yet  it  looked  upon  unbroken  snow- 
fields.  Then,  about  the  middle  of  April,  the  snow  passed 
quickly  away  in  blazing  sunshine,  in  a  thousand  rivulets, 
in  a  flooded  river.  The  roads  were  heavy  with  mud,  but 
the  earth  was  left  green,  the  bud  of  spring  ha-ving  been 
nurtured  beneath  the  kindly  shelter  of  the  snow. 


1  i 


Ij 


1^ 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Now  came  the  most  lovely  moment  of  the  year.  All  the 
trees  were  putting  forth  new  leaves,  leaves  so  young,  so  tiny 
as  yet,  that  one  could  see  the  fowls  of  the  air  when  they 
lodged  in  the  branches — no  small  privilege,  for  now  the 
orange  oriole,  and  the  bluebird,  and  the  primrose-coloured 
finch,  were  here,  there,  and  everywhere;  and  more  rarely 
the  scarlet  tanager.  A.  few  days  before  and  they  had  not 
come;  a  few  days  more  and  larger  leaves  would  hide  them 
perfectly.  Just  at  this  time,  too,  along  the  roadsides,  big 
hawthorn  shrubs  and  wild  plum  were  in  blossom,  and  in  the 
sheltered  fields  the  mossy  sod  was  pied  with  white  and 
purple  violets,  whose  flowerets  so  outstripped  their  half- 
grown  leaves  that  blue  and  milky  ways  were  seen  in  wood- 
land glades. 

With  the  sense  of  freedom  that  comes  with  the  thus 
Sttdden  advent  of  the  young  summer,  Winifred  Rexford 


224 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  II 


strayed  out  of  the  house  one  morning.  She  did  not  mean 
to  go,  and  when  she  went  through  the  front  gate  she  only- 
meant  to  go  as  far  as  the  first  wild  plum-tree,  to  see  if 
the  white  bloom  was  turning  purple  yet,  as  Principal  Tren- 
holme  had  told  her  it  would.  When  she  got  to  the  first 
plum-tree  she  went  on  to  the  second.  Winifred  wore  a  grey 
cotton  dress;  it  was  short,  not  yet  to  her  ankles,  and  her 
broad  hat  shaded  her  from  the  sun.  When  she  reached  the 
second  group  of  plum-trees  she  saw  a  scarlet  tanager  sitting 
on  a  telegraph  pole — for  along  the  margin  of  the  road, 
standing  among  uncut  grass  and  flowers  and  trees,  tall 
barkless  stumps  were  set,  holding  the  wires  on  high.  Per- 
haps they  were  ugly  things,  but  a  tree  whose  surface  is 
uncut  is  turned  on  Nature's  lathe;  at  any  rate,  to  the  child 
the  poles  were  merely  a  part  of  the  Canadian  road,  and  the 
scarlet  tanager  showed  its  plumage  to  advantage  as  it  sat 
on  the  bare  wood.  There  was  no  turning  back  then ;  even 
Sophia  would  have  neglected  her  morning  task  to  see  a 
tanager !  She  crept  up  under  it,  and  the  bird,  like  a  streak 
of  red  flame,  shot  forth  from  the  pole  to  a  group  of  young 
pine  trees  further  on. 

So  Winifred  strayed  up  the  road  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile, 
till  she  came  to  the  gate  of  the  Harmon  garden.  The  old 
house,  always  half  concealed,  was  quickly  being  entirely 
hidden  by  the  massive  curtains  the  young  leaves  were  so 
busily  weaving.  The  tanager  turned  in  here,  as  what  bird 
would  not  when  it  spied  a  tract  of  ground  where  Nature 
was  riotously  decking  a  bower  with  the  products  of  all  the 
roots  and  seeds  of  a  deserted  garden !  There  was  many  a 
gap  in  the  weatherbeaten  fence  where  the  child  might  have 
followed,  but  she  dare  not,  for  she  was  in  great  awe  of  the 
place,  because  the  preacher  who  was  said  to  have  died  and 
come  to  life  again  lived  there.  She  only  stood  and  looked 
through  the  fenoe,  and  the  tanager — having  flitted  near 
the  house — soared  and  settled  among  the  feathery  boughs 
of  a  proud  acacia  tree ;  she  had  to  look  across  half  an  acre 
of  bushes  to  see  him,  and  then  he  was  so  high  and  so  far 


CHAP.  XII]  IVHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


225 


rd 

:e 

lie 
a 
'^e 
le 
id 
;d 

LI 

lis 
ir 


that  it  seemed  (as  when  looking  at  the  stars)  she  did  not 
see  him,  but  only  the  ray  of  scarlet  light  tliat  travelled 
from  him  through  an  atmosphere  of  leaflets.  It  was  very 
trying,  for  any  one  knows  tliat  it  is  something  to  be  able 
to  say  that  you  have  come  to  close  quarters  with  a  scarlet 
tanager. 

Winifred,  stooping  and  looking  through  the  fence,  soon 
heard  the  college  bell  jangle ;  she  knew  that  it  was  nine 
o'clock,  and  boys  and  masters  were  being  ingathered  for 
morning  work.  The  college  buildings  in  their  bare  enclos- 
ure stood  on  the  other  side  of  the  road.  Winifred  would 
have  been  too  shy  to  pass  the  playground  while  the  boys 
were  out,  but  now  that  every  soul  connected  with  the 
place  would  be  indoors,  she  thought  she  might  go  round 
the  sides  of  the  Harmon  garden  and  see  the  red  bird  much 
nearer  from  a  place  she  thought  of. 

This  place  was  nothing  but  a  humble,  disused,  and  un- 
tidy burying-ground,  that  occupied  the  next  lot  in  the  nar- 
row strip  of  land  that  here  for  a  mile  divided  road  and 
river.  Winifred  ran  over  the  road  between  the  Harmon 
garden  and  the  college  fence,  and,  climbing  the  log  fence, 
stood  among  the  quiet  gravestones  that  chronicled  the  past 
generations  of  Chellaston.  Here  grass  and  wild  flowers 
grew  apace,  and  close  by  ran  the  rippling  river  reflecting 
the  violet  sky  above.  A  cemetery,  every  one  knows,  is  a 
place  where  any  one  may  walk  or  sit  as  long  as  he  likes, 
but  Winifred  was  surprised  to  find  Principal  Trenholme's 
housekeeper  there  before  her;  and  moreover,  this  staid,  sad 
woman  was  in  the  very  place  Winifred  was  going  to,  for 
she  was  looking  through  the  fence  that  enclosed  the  Har- 
mon garden. 

"Good  morning,  Mrs.  Martha,"  said  Winifred  politely, 
concealing  her  surprise. 

"I've  been  milking,"  said  the  sad  woman,  glancing 
slightly  at  a  pail  of  foaming  milk  that  she  had  set  for 
greater  security  between  two  grave -heaps. 

Winifred  came  and  took  her  place  beside  the  house- 


lii 


Iff 


226 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[rook  ir 


keeper,  and  tliey  both  looked  through  the  paling  of  the 
Harmon  property. 

The  tanager  was  still  on  the  acacia,  from  this  nearer 
point  looking  like  a  great  scarlet  blossom  of  some  cactus, 
so  intense  was  the  colour;  but  Winifred  was  distracted 
from  her  interest  in  the  bird  by  seeing  the  old  house  more 
plainly  than  she  had  ever  seen  it  before.  It  stood,  a  large 
substantial  dwelling,  built  not  without  the  variety  of  out- 
line which  custom  has  given  to  modern  villas,  but  with  all 
its  doors  and  windows  on  this  side  fastened  by  wooden 
shutters,  that,  with  one  or  two  exceptions,  were  nailed  up 
with  crossbeams  and  overgrown  with  cobwebs.  Winifred 
surveyed  it  with  an  interested  glance. 

"  Did  you  come  to  see  him?  "  whispered  the  housekeeper. 

Winifred's  eye  reverted  to  the  tanager  of  which,  on  the 
whole,  her  mind  was  more  full.  "Yes" — she  whispered 
the  word  for  fear  of  startling  it. 

"  1  should  think  yer  ma  would  want  you  in  of  a  morning, 
or  Miss  Sophia  would  be  learning  you  yer  lessons.     When 

I  was  your  age But " — sadly — "  it  stands  to  reason  yer 

ma,  having  so  many,  and  the  servant  gone,  and  the  cows 
comin'  in  so  fast  these  days  one  after  t'other,  that  they 
can't  learn  you  much  of  anything  reg'lar." 

Winifred  acquiesced  politely.  She  was  quite  conscious 
of  the  shortcomings  in  the  system  of  home  education  as  it 
was  being  applied  to  her  in  those  days ;  no  critic  so  keen  in 
these  matters  as  the  pupil  of  fourteen ! 

"Well  now,  it's  a  pity,"  said  the  housekeeper,  sin- 
cerely, "and  they  do  say  yer  ma  does  deplorable  bad  cook- 
ing, and  yer  sisters  that's  older  than  you  aren't  great  hands 
at  learning."  The  housekeeper  sat  down  on  a  grave  near 
the  paling,  as  if  too  discouraged  at  the  picture  she  had 
drawn  to  have  energy  to  stand  longer. 

Winifred  looked  at  the  tanager,  at  the  housekeeper,  and 
round  her  at  the  happy  morning.  This  sad-eyed,  angular 
woman  always  seemed  to  her  more  like  a  creature  out  of 
a  solemn  story,  or  out  of  a  stained-glass  window,  than  a-o 


CHAP.  XII]  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


227 


r 


Ir 

If 


ordinary  person  whose  comments  could  be  offensive.  They 
had  talked  together  before,  and  each  in  her  own  way  took 
a  serious  interest  in  the  other. 

"Sister  Sophia  has  learned  to  cook  very  nicely,"  said  the 
child,  but  not  cheerfully.  It  never  seemed  to  her  quite 
polite  to  be  cheerful  when  she  was  talking  to  Mrs.  Martha. 

"Yes,  child;  but  she  can't  do  everything" — with  a  sigh 
— "she's  put  upon  dreadful  as  it  is."  Then  in  a  minute, 
"What  made  you  think  of  coming  here  after  him? " 

"I  think  it's  so  wonderful."  The  child's  eyes  enlarged 
as  she  peered  through  the  fence  again  at  the  scarlet  bird. 

"Lolly,  child!  I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,"  said  Mrs. 
Martha,  strongly.  "He's  far  above  and  beyond — he's  a 
very  holy  man." 

Winifred  perceived  now  that  she  was  talking  of  old  Cam- 
eron, and  she  thought  it  more  polite  not  to  explain  that 
she  had  misunderstood.  Indeed,  all  other  interests  in  her 
mind  became  submerged  in  wonder  concerning  the  old  man 
as  thus  presented. 

"He's  mad,  isn't  he?" 

"No,  he  isn't." 

"  I  knew  he  was  very  good,  but  couldn't  he  be  good  and 
mad  too?" 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Martha;  and  the  serious  assertion  had 
all  the  more  effect  because  it  stood  alone,  unpropped  by  a 
single  reason. 

"When  I've  milked  the  Principal's  special  cow  I  often 
come  here  of  a  morning,  and  sometimes  I  see  the  saint 
walking  under  the  trees.  I  don't  mind  telling  you,  child, 
for  you've  a  head  older  than  yer  years,  but  you  mustn't 
speak  of  it  again.     I'd  not  like  folks  to  know." 

"I  won't  tell,"  whispered  Winifred,  eagerly.  She  felt 
inexpressibly  honoured  by  the  confidence.  "  Do  you  think 
he'll  come  out  now?"  Awe  and  excited  interest,  not 
unmingled  with  fear,  were  taking  possession  of  her.  She 
crouched  down  beside  the  solemn  woman,  and  looked 
through  at  the  house  and  all  its   closed  windows.     The 


?!i 


228 


WHAT  NEC  ESS/TV  KNOWS 


[book  II 


hedge  was  alive  with  birds  that  hopped  and  piped  unno- 
ticed, even  the  scarlet  bird  was  forgotten. 

"Mrs.  Martha,"  she  whispered,  "I  heard  papa  say  Came- 
ron believed  that  our  Saviour  was  soon  coming  back  again, 
and  only  those  people  would  go  with  Him  who  were  watch- 
ing and  waiting.  Mr.  Trenholme  said  every  one  was  mad 
who  thought  that." 

"  There's  a  sight  of  people  will  tell  you  you're  mad  if 
you're  only  fervent." 

The  child  did  not  know  precisely  what  "fervent"  meant, 
but  she  began  to  doubt  Trenholme's  positive  knowledge  on 
the  subject.  "Do  you  believe  the  end  of  the  world's  com- 
ing so  soon?  " 

"Lor,  child!  what  do  I  know  but  the  world  might 
go  on  a  good  bit  after  that?  I  can't  tell  from  my  Bible 
whether  the  Lord  will  take  us  who  are  looking  for  Him  up 
to  His  glory  for  a  while,  or  whether  He'll  appoint  us  a 
time  of  further  trial  while  He's  conquering  the  earth;  but 
I  do  know  it  wouldn't  matter  much  which,  after  we'd  heard 
Him  speak  to  each  of  us  by  name  and  seen  His  face."  The 
sad  woman  looked  positively  happy  while  she  spoke. 

- "  Oh,  Mrs.  Martha,  are  you  watching  like  that?    But  how 
can  you  all  the  f,ime — ^you  must  sleep  and  work,  you  know?" 

"Yes,  child;  but  the  heart  can  watch;  and  He  knows  we 
must  sleep  and  work;  and  for  that  reason  I'm  not  so  sure 
but,  if  we're  faithful,  He  might  in  mercy  give  us  a  word 
beforehand  to  let  us  know  when  to  be  expecting  more  par- 
ticularly. I  don't  know,  you  know,  child;  I'm  only  say- 
ing what  might  be." 

"But  what  makes  you  think  so,  Mrs.  Martha?" 

Winifred  was  quick-witted  enough  to  perceive  something 
withheld. 

"  There's  things  that  it's  not  right  for  any  one  to  know 
but  those  as  will  reverence  them." 

"Oh,  I  will,  I  will,"  said  Winifred,  clasping  her  hands. 

"As  I  understand  it,  Mr.  Cameron's  had  no  assurance 
yet." 


CHAP.  XII]  IVHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


229 


Is. 


AVinifred  did  not  ask  what  this  meant.  She  felt  that 
she  was  listening  to  words  that,  if  mysterious,  were  to  be 
pondered  in  silence. 

"You  know  the  poor  thing  wliose  husband  is  always 
tipsy — drunken  Job  they  call  him — tliat  you've  seen  listen- 
ing to  IVIr.  Cameron? — and  that  weakly  Mr.  McNider,  with 
the  little  boy?" 

"Yes,"  assented  Winifred. 

"He  told  them,"  whispered  the  housekeeper,  "that  when 
he  was  agonising  in  prayer  it  came  into  his  mind  to  wait 
until  August  this  year.  He  hasn't  any  assurance  what  it 
may  have  meant;  but  that  may  come  later,  and  p'r'aps  the 
days  may  be  told  him;  and  he's  awaiting,  and  we're  await- 
ing too.  There,  that's  all  I  have  to  tell,  child,  and  I  must 
be  going." 

She  gathered  her  lean  figure  up  from  the  hillock,  and 
took  up  her  jmil. 

As  for  the  girl  Winifred,  a  terrible  feeling  of  fear  had 
come  over  her.  All  the  bright  world  of  sun  and  flowers 
seemed  suddenly  overshadowed  by  the  lowering  cloud  of 
an  awful  possibility.  She  would  no  more  have  allowed 
herself  to  be  left  alone  in  that  sunny  corner  of  the  glad 
spring  morning  than  she  would  have  remained  alone  where 
visible  danger  beset  her.  Her  face  bathed  in  the  sudden 
tears  that  came  so  easily  to  her  girlish  eyes,  she  sprang 
like  a  fawn  after  her  companion  and  grasped  her  skirt  as 
she  followed. 

"How  you  take  on!  "  sighed  the  woman,  turning.  "Do 
you  mean  to  say  you  ain't  glad?  " 

"I'm  frightened,"  gasped  the  girl. 

"And  you  been  confirmed  this  spring!  What  did  it 
mean  to  you  if  you  ain't  glad  there's  ever  such  a  little 
chance  of  perhaps  seeing  Him  before  the  year's  out." 

They  both  climbed  the  fence,  handing  over  the  milk-pail 
between  them.  When  they  had  got  on  to  the  road  and 
must  part,  the  housekeeper  spoke. 

"I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Winifred  Eexford;  we've  not  one 


f* 


if! 


'I 


P 


230 


WHAT  NILCESSITV  KNOWS 


[book  h 


i 


of  us  much  to  bring  Ilim  in  the  way  of  service.  If  there's 
one  thing  more  than  another  I'm  fond  of  it's  to  have  my 
kitchen  places  to  myself,  but  I've  often  thought  I  ought 
to  ask  yer  ma  to  send  one  of  you  over  every  day  to  learn 
from  me  how  a  house  ought  to  be  kept  and  dinner  cooked. 
Ye'd  learn  more  watching  me  in  a  month,  you  know,  than 
ye'd  learn  with  yer  ma  a  fussin'  round  in  six  years.  Don't 
tell  yer  ma  it's  a  trial  to  me,  but  just  ask  her  if  she'll  send 
you  over  for  an  hour  or  two  every  morning." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Winifred,  reluctantly.  "Do  you 
think  I  oM^ht  to  come?" 

"  Well,  I'd  want  to  be  a  bit  more  use  to  my  ma  if  I  was  you. " 

"It's  very  kind  of  you,"  acknowledged  Winifred;  "but 
— but — Mrs.  Martha,  if  it  was  true  about  this — iliis  August, 
you  know — what  would  be  the  use  of  learning?  " 

"Child,"  said  the  woman,  and  if  her  voice  was  sad  it  was 
also  vehement,  "  them  as  are  mad  in  religion  are  them  as 
thinks  doing  the  duty  of  eacli  day  for  His  sake  ain't  enough 
without  seeing  where's  the  use  of  doing  what  He  puts  to 
our  hand." 

"Mrs.  Martha,"  besought  Winifred,  timidly,  "I — don't 
like  cooking ;  but  do  you  think  if  I  did  this  I  should  per- 
haps get  to  be  glad  to  think — be  glad  to  think  our  Saviour 
might  be  coming  again  so  soon?" 

"  To  love  Him  is  of  His  grace,  and  you  must  get  it  direct 
from  Him;  but  it's  wonderful  how  doing  the  best  we  can 
puts  heart  into  our  prayers." 

The  scarlet  tanager  rose  and  flew  from  tree  to  tree  like  a 
darting  flame,  but  Winifred  had  forgotten  him. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Midsummer  came  with  its  culmination  of  heat  and  ver- 
dure ;  and  a  great  epoch  it  was  in  the  Chellaston  year,  for 
it  brought  the  annual  influx  of  fashionable  life  from  Quebec 
and  Montreal.     To  tell  the  plain  truth,  this  influx  only 


CHAP,  xiiij         IVIIAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


231 


3t 


)r 

[y 


consisted  of  one  or  two  families  wlio  had  chosen  this  as  a 
place  in  which  to  build  summer  residences,  and  some  hun- 
dred other  people  who,  singly  or  in  parties,  took  rooms  in 
the  hotel  for  the  hot  season;  but  it  made  a  vast  difference 
in  the  appearance  of  the  quiet  place  to  have  several  smart 
pharfons,  and  one  carriage  and  pair,  parading  its  roads, 
and  to  have  its  main  street  enlivened  by  the  sight  of  the 
gay  crowd  on  the  hotel  verandahs. 

"Now,"  said  Miss  Bennett,  calling  upon  Miss  Rexford, 
"there  will  be  a  few  people  to  talk  to,  and  we  shall  see  a 
little  life.  These  people  are  really  a  very  good  sort;  you'll 
begin  to  have  some  enjoyment." 

The  Rexfords  had  indeed  been  advertised  more  than  once 
of  the  advantage  that  would  accrue  to  them  from  the  com- 
ing of  the  town-folks,  and  this  chiefly  by  Trenholme  him- 
self. 

"The  place  will  seem  far  different,"  he  had  sa^d,  "when 
you  have  passed  one  of  our  summers.  We  really  have  some 
delightful  pleasure  parties  here  in  summer."  And  another 
time  he  had  said,  "When  Mrs.  Brown  and  her  daughters 
come  'o  their  house  on  the  hill  I  want  you  to  know  them. 
They  are  such  true-hearted  people.  All  our  visitors  are 
genuine  Canadians,  not  immigrants  as  we  and  our  neigh- 
bours are;  and  yet,  do  you  know,  they  are  so  nice  you 
would  hardly  know  them  from  English  people.  Oh,  they 
add  to  our  social  life  very  much  when  they  come !  " 

He  had  said  so  many  things  of  this  sort,  ostensibly  to 
Mrs.  Rexford,  really  to  Sophia,  who  was  usually  a  party 
to  his  calls  on  her  mother,  that  he  had  inspired  in  them 
some  of  his  own  pleasurable  anticipation.  It  was  not  until 
the  summer  visitors  were  come  that  they  realised  how 
great  was  the  contrast  between  their  own  bare  manner  of 
living  and  the  easy-going  expenditure  of  these  people, 
who  were  supposed  to  be  such  choice  acquaintances  for 
them.  Everything  is  relative.  They  had  not  been  morti- 
fied by  any  comparison  of  their  own  circumstances  and 
those  of  Chellaston  families,  because,  on  one  account  and 


1 1 


232 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[BOOJi  I! 


another,  there  had  always  appeared  to  be  something  to 
equalise  the  difference.  Either  their  neiglibours,  if  better 
off,  had  not  long  ago  begun  as  meagrely,  or  else  they  lacked 
those  advantages  of  culture  or  social  standing  which  the 
Kexfords  could  boast.  Such  are  the  half  conscious  refuges 
of  our  j^gotisra.  But  with  the  introduction  of  this  new  ele- 
ment it  was  different.  Not  that  they  drew  any  definite 
comparison  between  themselves  and  their  new  neighbours 
— for  things  that  are  different  cannot  be  compared,  and  the 
difference  on  all  points  was  great;  but  part  of  Trenholme's 
prophecy  took  place;  the  life  in  tliat  pleasant  land  did 
appear  more  and  more  desirable  as  they  witnessed  the 
keen  enjoyment  that  these  people,  who  were  not  workers, 
took  in  it — only  (Trenholme  and  Miss  Bennett  seemed  to 
have  overlooked  this)  the  leisure  and  nteans  for  such  en- 
joyment were  not  theirs. 

"Oh,  mamma,"  said  Blue  and  Ked,  "we  saw  the  Miss 
Browns  driving  on  the  road,  and  they  had  such  pretty  sil- 
ver-grey frocks,  with  feathers  in  their  hats  to  match.  We 
wish  we  could  have  feathers  to  match  our  frocks." 

And  later  Sophia,  seeking  her  step-mother,  found  her  in 
her  own  room,  privately  weeping.  The  rare  sight  rent  her 
heart. 

"  If  I  am  their  mother  "  (she  began  her  explanation  hur- 
riedly, wiping  her  tears)  "  I  can  say  truthfully  they're  as 
pretty  a  pair  of  girls  as  may  be  seen  on  a  summer  day.  You 
had  your  turn,  Sophia;  it's  very  noble  of  you  to  give  up 
so  much  for  us  now,  but  it  can't  be  said  that  you  didn't 
have  your  turn  of  gaiety." 

Now  Blue  and  Red  were  not  in  need  of  frocks,  for  before 
they  left  England  their  mother  had  stocked  their  boxes  as 
though  she  was  never  to  see  a  draper's  shop  again.  But 
then,  she  had  been  in  a  severely  utilitarian  mood,  and  when 
she  cut  out  the  garments  it  had  not  occurred  to  her  that 
Fashion  would  ever  come  across  the  fields  of  a  Canadian  farm. 

Sophia  rallied  her  on  this  mistake  now,  but  resolutely 
abstracted  certain  moneys  from  the  family  purse  and  pur- 


r 
r 

r 

In 

it 


CHAi'.  xiii]         WHAT  htECESSITY  ATUOlVS 


233 


chased  for  the  girls  wliite  frocks.  She  did  not  omit  blue  and 
red  ribbons  to  distinguish  between  the  frocks  and  between 
the  wearers.  Tronholnie  Iiad  remarked  of  the  girls  lately 
that  neither  would  know  which  was  herself  and  which  the 
other  if  the  badge  of  colour  were  removed,  and  Soi)hia  had 
fallen  into  the  way  of  thinking  a  goml  deal  of  all  he  said. 
She  was  busy  weighing  him  in  the  scales  of  her  approval 
and  disapproval,  and  the  scales,  she  hardly  knew  why,  con- 
tinued to  balance  witli  annoying  nicety. 

For  the  making  up  of  the  frocks,  she  was  obliged  to  apply 
for  advice  to  Eliza,  who  was  the  only  patron  of  dressmakers 
with  whom  she  was  intimate. 

"I  think,  on  the  whole,  she  is  satisfactory,"  said  Eliza  of 
one  whom  she  had  employed.  "  She  made  the  dress  I  have 
on,  for  instance;  it  fits  pretty  well,  you  see." 

Sophia  did  not  resent  this.  Eliza  had  had  a  rocket-like 
career  of  success  in  the  hotel  which  pleased  and  amused 
her;  but  she  felt  that  to  forgive  the  Brown  family  for  hav- 
ing a  carriage  and  pair  required  large-mindedncss  while 
her  father's  carriage  still  stood  in  the  unfurnished  drawing- 
room,  and  even  Mrs.  Rexford  had  given  up  hopes  of  finding 
horses  to  draw  it. 

Very  soon  after  their  annual  arrival,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brown 
and  their  two  daughters  came  kindly  to  call  on  the  new 
English  family.  Principal  Trenholme  found  time  to  run 
over  by  appointment  and  introduce  his  friends.  The  visitors 
were  evidently  generous-minded,  wholesome  sort  of  people, 
with  no  high  development  of  the  critical  faculty,  travelled, 
well-read,  merry,  and  kind.  Sophia  confessed  to  herself 
after  the  first  interview  that,  had  it  not  been  for  their  faulty 
degree  of  wealth  and  prosperity,  she  would  have  liked  them 
very  much.  Mrs.  Bennett,  whose  uncle  had  been  an  admiral, 
considered  them  desirable  friends  for  her  daughter,  and  this 
was  another  reason  why,  out  of  pure  contrariness,  Sophia 
found  liking  difficult;  but  she  determined  for  Trenholrae's 
sake  to  try — a  good  resolution  which  lasted  until  she  had 
taken  Blue  and  Red  to  return  the  call,  but  no  longer. 


I 


n 


^34 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  ir 


i  ■  'W 

i  :  :i\ 


"And  Miss  Kexford,"  said  good  Mrs.  Brown,  "we  hear 
you  have  had  the  privilege  of  knowing  Principal  Trenholme 
for  a  long  time  before  he  came  out  here.  He  is  a  very  good 
man;  for  so  comparatively  young  a  man,  and  one,  as  you 
might  say,  with  so  many  worldly  advantages,  I  think  it  is 
perhaps  remarkable  that  he  is  so  spiritually-minded.  I 
count  it  a  blessing  that  we  have  the  opportunity  of  attend- 
ing his  church  during  the  summer  months."  Simple  sense 
and  perfect  sincerity  were  written  on  every  line  of  Mts. 
Brown's  motherly  face. 

"He  really  is  very  good,"  said  one  of  the  daughters. 
"  Do  you  know.  Miss  Kexford,  we  have  a  friend  who  has  a 
son  at  the  college.  He  really  went  to  the  college  a  very 
naughty  boy,  no  one  could  manage  him;  and  he's  so  changed 
— such  a  nice  fellow,  and  doing  so  well.  His  mother  says 
she  could  thank  Principal  Trenholme  on  her  knees,  if  it 
was  only  the  conventional  thing  to  do." 

"He  is  a  most  devoted  Christian,"  added  Mrs.  Brown, 
using  the  religious  terms  to  which  she  was  accustomed,  "  and 
I  believe  he  makes  it  a  matter  of  prayer  that  no  young  man 
should  leave  his  college  without  deepened  religious  life.  I 
believe  in  prayer  as  a  power;  don't  j'^ou,  Miss  Rexford?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Sophia,  tersely.  She  did  not  feel  at  that 
moment  as  if  she  wanted  to  discuss  the  point. 

"And  then  he's  so  jolly,"  put  in  the  youngest  Miss 
Brown,  who  was  a  hearty  girl.  "  That's  the  sort  of  religion 
for  me,  the  kind  that  can  rollick — of  course  I  mean  out  of 
church,"  she  added  naively. 

Blue  and  Red  sat  shyly  upon  their  chairs  and  listened  to 
this  discourse.  It  might  have  been  Greek  for  all  the  inter- 
est they  took  in  it. 

As  for  Sophia,  it  could  not  be  said  to  lack  interest  for 
her — it  was  very  plain,  she  thought,  why  Robert  Trenholme 
thought  so  highly  of  the  Browns. 

There  was  a  youth  belonging  to  this  family  who  was  a 
year  or  two  older  than  Blue  and  Red.  His  mother,  sent 
for  him  to  come  into  the  room,    and  introduced  him  to 


CHAP.  XIII]         WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


235 


i 


)n 


Ito 


lor 


a 


them.  He  was  a  nice  youth,  but  prtcocious}  he  said  to 
them: 

"  I  suppose  you  think  Chellaston  is  a  very  pretty  place, 
but  I'll  tell  you  what  our  natural  beauties  lack  as  yet.  It 
is  such  a  literature  as  you  have  in  England,  which  has  done 
so  much  to  endear  the  wildflowers  and  birds  and  all  natural 
objects  there  to  the  heart  of  the  people.  Our  Canadian 
flora  and  fauna  are  at  present  unsung,  and  therefore,  to  a 
large  extent,  unobserved  by  the  people,  for  I  think  the  chief 
use  of  the  poet  is  to  interpret  nature  to  the  people — don't 
you?  " 

Blue  ventured  "yes,"  and  Ked  lisped  in  confusion,  "Do 
you  think  so,  really?  "  but  as  for  any  opinion  on  the  subject 
they  had  none.  Sophia,  fearing  that  her  sisters  would  be 
cast  aside  as  hopeless  dunces,  was  obliged  to  turn  partially 
from  the  praise  that  was  being  lavished  on  Trenholme  to 
make  some  pithy  remark  upon  the  uses  of  the  poet. 

Sohpia,  although  half  conscious  of  her  own  unreasonable- 
ness, decided  now  that  the  Browns  might  go  one  way  and 
she  another;  but  she  was  indebted  to  this  visit  for  a  clue  in 
analysing  the  impression  Trenholme  made  upon  her.  His 
new  friends  had  called  him  noble ;  she  knew  now  that  when 
she  knew  him  ten  years  before  he  had  seemed  to  her  a  more 
noble  character. 

In  the  next  few  weeks  she  observed  that  in  every  picnic, 
every  pleasure  party,  by  land  or  water,  Principal  Trenholme 
was  the  most  honoured  guest,  and,  indeed,  the  most  accept- 
able cavalier.  His  holidays  had  come,  and  he  was  enjoying 
them  in  spite  of  much  work  that  he  still  exacted  from 
himself.  She  wondered  at  the  manner  in  which  he  seemed 
to  enjoy  them,  and  excused  herself  from  participation.  It 
was  her  own  doing  that  she  stayed  at  home,  yet,  perversely, 
she  felt  neglected.  She  hardly  knew  whether  it  was  low 
spite  or  a  heaven-born  solicitude  that  made  her  feel  bitter 
regret  at  the  degeneracy  she  began  to  think  she  saw  in  him. 

In  due  time  there  came  a  pleasure  party  of  which  Tren- 
holme was  to  be  the  host.     It  was  to  take  place  in  a  lovely 


23<5 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  II 


bit  of  wilderness  ground  by  the  river  side,  at  the  hour  of 
sunset  and  moonrise,  in  order  that,  if  the  usual  brilliancy 
attended  these  phenomena,  the  softest  glories  of  light  might 
be  part  of  the  entertainment.  Music  was  also  promised. 
Principal  Trenholme  came  himself  to  solicit  the  attendance 
of  the  Miss  Kexfords;  but  Sophia,  promising  for  Blue  and 
Red,  pleaded  lack  of  time  for  herself.  "  And  I  wish  your 
scheme  success,"  cried  she,  "but  I  need  not  wish  you 
pleasure  since,  as  on  all  such  occasions,  you  will  'sit  atten- 
tive to  your  own  applause.'  " 

She  felt  a  little  vexed  that  he  did  not  seem  hurt  by  her 
quotation,  but  only  laughed.  She  did  not  know  that, 
although  the  adulation  he  received  was  sweet  to  him,  it 
was  only  sweet  that  summer  because  he  thought  it  must 
enhance  his  value  in  her  eyes.  Some  one  tells  of  a  lover 
who  gained  his  point  by  putting  an  extra  lace  on  his  ser- 
vants' liveries ;  and  the  savage  sticks  his  cap  with  feathers : 
but  these  artifices  do  not  always  succeed. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


i 


Up  the  road,  about  a  mile  beyond  the  college  and  the 
Harmon  house,  there  was  a  wilderness  of  ferns  and  sumac 
trees,  ending  in  a  stately  pine  grove  that  marked  the  place 
where  road  and  river  met.  Thither  Blue  and  Red  were 
sent  on  the  evening  of  Trenholme's  picnic.  They  were 
dressed  in  their  new  frocks,  and  had  been  started  at  the  time 
all  the  picnic-goers  were  passing  up  the  road.  They  walked 
alone,  but  they  were  consigned  to  Mrs.  Bennett's  care  at  the 
place  of  assembly.  Several  carriages  full  of  guests  passed 
them. 

"I'm  growing  more  shy  every  moment,"  said  Blue. 

"So  am  I,"  sighed  Red. 

Young  girls  will  make  haunting  fears  for  themselves  out 
of  many  things,  and  these  two  were  beset  with  a  not 


t: 

^\ 

m 

ca 

tif 
th 
m( 
bu 


!  1 


I  :<■ 


CHAP.  XIV]  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


237 


unnatural  fear  of  young  men  who  would  talk  to  them  about 
flora  and  fauna.  Sophia  had  told  them  that  they  looked 
like  ninnies  when  they  appeared  not  to  know  what  people 
meant,  and  they  could  not  endure  the  thought. 

Sighed  Blue  at  last,  "  Do  you  think  it  would  be  dread- 
fully wicked  not  to  go?" 

All  the  guests  had  passed  them  by  this  time,  for  they  had 
loitered  sadly.  It  was  not  that  they  were  not  proud  of 
their  clothes;  they  were  as  proud  as  peacocks,  and  minced 
along;  but  then  it  was  enough  just  to  wear  one's  fine 
clothes  and  imagine  that  they  might  meet  somebody  who 
would  admire  them. 

"Oh,  Blue,"  said  Red  suddenly,  withholding  her  steps, 
"  suppose  we  didn't  go,  and  Avere  to  walk  back  just  a  little 

later,  don't  you  think  we  might  meet ?  "     There  was  no 

name,  but  a  sympathetic  understanding.  It  was  Harkness 
of  whom  they  thought. 

"I'm  sure  he's  a  great  deal  better  looking  than  young 
Mr.  Brown,  and  I  think  it's  unkind  to  mind  the  way  he 
talks.  Since  Winifred  had  her  teeth  done,  1  think  we  might 
just  bow  a  little,  if  we  met  him  on  the  road." 

"I  think  it  would  be  naughty,"  said  Red,  reflectively, 
"but  nice — much  nicer  than  a  grown-up  picnic." 

"  Let's  do  it,"  said  Blue.  "  We're  awfully  good  generally; 
that  ought  to  make  up." 

The  sunset  cloud  was  still  rosy,  and  the  calm  bright  moon 
was  riding  up  the  heavens  wlien  these  two  naughty  little 
maidens,  who  had  waited  out  of  sight  of  the  picnic  ground, 
judged  it  might  be  the  right  time  to  be  walking  slowly  home 


again. 


"I  feel  convinced  he  won't  come,"  said  Blue,  "just  be- 
cause we  should  so  much  like  to  pass  him  in  these  frocks." 

Now  an  evil  conscience  often  is  the  rod  of  its  own  chas- 
tisement; but  in  this  instance  there  was  another  factor  in 
the  case,  nothing  less  than  a  little  company  of  half  tipsy 
men,  who  came  along  from  the  town,  peacefully  enough, 
but   staggering  visibly  and  talking   loud,   and  the   girls 


338 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  II 


caught  sight  of  them  when  they  had  come  a  long  way  from 
the  pleasure  party  and  were  not  yet  very  near  any  house. 
The  possibility  of  passing  in  safety  did  not  enter  their 
panic-stricken  minds.  They  no  sooner  spied  the  men  than 
they  stepped  back  within  the  temporary  shelter  of  a  curve 
in  the  road,  speechless  with  terror.  They  heard  the  voices 
and  steps  coming  nearer.  They  looked  back  the  long  road 
they  had  come,  and  perceived  that  down  its  length  they 
could  not  fly.  It  was  in  this  moment  of  despair  that  a 
brilliant  idea  was  born  in  the  mind  of  Red.  She  turned  to 
the  low  open  fence  of  the  little  cemetery. 

"Come,  we  can  pretend  to  be  tombs,"  she  cried,  and 
whirled  Blue  over  the  fence.  They  climbed  and  ran  like  a 
streak  of  light,  and  before  the  drunkards  were  passing  the 
place,  the  girls  were  well  back  among  marble  gravestones. 

Some  artistic  instinct  warned  them  that  two  such  queer 
monuments  ought  to  be  widely  apart  to  escape  notice.  So, 
in  the  gathering  dimness,  each  knelt  stock  still,  without 
even  the  comfort  of  the  other's  proximity  to  help  her 
through  the  long,  long,  awful  minutes  while  the  roisterous 
company  were  passing  by.  The  men  proceeded  slowly; 
happily  they  had  no  interest  in  inspecting  the  gravestones 
of  the  little  cemetery;  but  had  they  been  gazing  over  the 
fence  with  eager  eyes,  and  had  their  designs  been  nothing 
short  of  murderous  upon  any  monument  they  chanced  to  find 
alive,  the  hearts  of  the  two  erring  maidens  could  not  have 
beat  with  more  intense  alarm.  Fear  wrought  in  them  that 
sort  of  repentance  which  fear  is  capable  of  working.  "  Oh, 
we're  very,  very  naughty;  we  ought  to  have  gone  to  the 
picnic  when  Sophia  was  so  good  as  to  buy  us  new  frocks," 
they  whispered  in  their  hearts ;  and  the  moon  looked  down 
upon  them  benevolently. 

The  stuff  of  their  repentance  was  soon  to  be  tested,  for  the 
voice  of  Harkness  was  heard  from  over  the  Harmon  fence. 

"Oh,  Glorianna!  there  was  never  such  sculptures.  Only 
want  wings.  Hats  instead  of  wings  is  a  little  curious  even 
for  a  funeral  monument." 


CHAP.  XIV]  WHAT  NEC  ESS/TV  KNOWS 


239 


It 

le 
I" 


The  two  girls  stood  huddled  together  now  in  hasty  con- 
sultation. "We  didn't  mean  to  be  sculptures,"  spoke  up 
Eed,  defending  her  brilliant  idea  almost  before  she  was 
aware.  "There's  nothing  but  stand-up  slabs  herej  we 
thought  we'd  look  something  like  them." 

"We  were  so  frightened  at  the  men,"  said  Blue.  They 
approached  the  fence  as  they  spoke. 

"Those  men  wouldn't  have  done  you  one  mite  of  harm," 
said  the  dentist,  looking  down  from  a  height  of  superior 
knowledge,  "and  if  they  had,  I'd  have  come  and  made  a 
clearance  double  quick." 

They  did  not  believe  his  first  assertion,  and  doubted  his 
ability  to  have  thus  routed  the  enemy,  but  Blue  instinctively 
replied,  "You  see,  we  didn't  know  you  were  here,  or  of 
course  we  shouldn't  have  been  frightened." 

"Beautiful  evening,  isn't  it?"  remarked  the  dentist. 


u 


we 


In 


"  Yes,  but  I  think  perhaps  " — Red  spoke  doubtfully- 
ought  to  be  going  home  now." 

She  was  a  little  mortified  to  find  that  he  saw  the  full 
force  of  the  suggestion. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  your  mother'll  be  looking  for  you." 

They  both  explained,  merely  to  set  him  right,  that  this 
would  not  be  the  case,  as  they  had  started  to  Principal 
Trenholme's  picnic. 

He  asked,  with  great  curiosity,  why  they  were  not  there, 
and  they  explained  as  well  as  they  could,  adding,  in  a  little 
burst  of  semi-confidence,  "  It's  rather  more  fun  to  talk  to 
jov  across  a  fence  than  sit  up  and  be  grand  in  company." 

I  J  smiled  at  them  good-naturedly. 

"Say,"  said  he,  "if  your  mother  let  you  stay  out,  'twas 
because  you  were  going  to  be  at  the  Trenholme  party. 
You're  not  getting  benefit  of  clergy  here,  you  know." 

"We're  going;  " — loftily — "we're  only  waiting  to  be  sure 
there's  no  more  drunken  people." 

"  I  was  just  about  to  ?*emark  that  I'd  do  myself  the  pleas- 
ure of  escorting  you." 

At  this  they  whispered  together.     Then,  aloud — "  Thank 


I 


I; 


240 


IIHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  II 


you  very  much  but  we're  not  afraid;  we're  often  out  as  late 
in  pa])a's  fields.  We're  afraid  mamma  wouldn't  like  it  if 
you  came  with  us." 

"Wouldn't  she  now?"  said  Harkness.  "Why  not?  Is 
she  stuck  up?  " 

Blue  felt  til  it  a  certain  romance  was  involved  in  acknowl- 
edging her  parents'  antipathy  and  her  own  regret. 

"Rather,"  she  faltered.  "Papa  and  mamma  are  rather 
proud,  I'm  afraid."  It  was  a  bold  flight  of  speech;  it  quite 
took  Red's  breath  away.  "And  so," — Blue  sighed  as  she 
went  on — "I'm  afraid  we  mustn't  talk  to  you  any  more; 
we're  very  sorry.  We — I'm  sure — we  think  you  are  very 
nice." 

Her  feeling  tone  drew  from  him  a  perfectly  sincere  reply, 
"  So  I  am;  I'm  really  a  very  nice  young  man.  My  mother 
brought  me  up  real  well."  He  added  benevolently,  "If 
you're  scared  of  the  road,  come  right  through  my  place  here, 
and  I'll  set  you  on  your  own  farm  double  quick." 

It  was  with  pleasurable  fear  that  the  girls  got  through 
the  fence  with  his  help.  They  whispered  to  each  other 
their  self-excuses,  saying  that  mamma  would  like  them  to 
be  in  their  own  fields  as  quickly  as  possible. 

The  moonlight  was  now  gloriously  bright.  The  shrubs 
of  the  old  garden,  in  full  verdure,  were  mysteriously  beau- 
tiful in  the  light.  The  old  house  could  be  clearly  seen. 
Harkness  led  them  across  a  narrow  open  space  in  front  of 
it,  that  had  once  been  a  gravel  drive,  but  was  now  almost 
green  with  weeds  and  grasses.  On  the  other  side  the 
bushes  grew,  as  it  seemed,  in  great  heaps,  with  here  and 
there  an  opening,  moonlit,  mysterious.  As  they  passed 
quickly  before  the  house,  the  girls  involuntarily  shied  like 
young  horses  to  the  further  side  of  Harkness,  their  eyes 
glancing  eagerly  for  signs  of  the  old  man.  In  a  minute 
they  sa\v  the  door  in  an  opening  niche  at  the  corner  of  the 
house ;  on  its  steps  sat  the  old  preacher,  his  grey  hair  shin- 
ing, his  bronzed  face  bathed  in  moonlight.  He  sat  peace- 
ful and  quiet,  his  hands  clasped.     Harkness  next  led  them 


CHAP,  xiv]  WHAT  NECESS/TV  KNOWS 


241 


)f 

lie 
id 
h1 

LC 

iS 

Ite 
lie 
lii- 
le- 


through  a  dark  overgrown  walk,  and,  true  to  his  promise, 
brought  them  at  once  to  the  other  fence.  He  seemed  to 
use  the  old  paling  as  a  gate  whenever  the  fancy  took  him. 
He  pulled  away  two  of  the  rotten  soft  wood  pales  and 
helped  the  girls  gallantly  on  to  their  father's  property. 

"Charmed,  I'm  sure,  to  be  of  use,  ladies!  "  cried  he,  anct 
he  miide  his  bow. 

On  the  other  side  of  their  own  fence,  knee-deep  in  dry 
uncut  grass,  they  stood  together  a  few  paces  from  the  gap 
he  had  made,  and  proffered  their  earnest  thanks. 

"Say,"  said  Harkness,  abruptly,  "d'you  often  see  Miss 
White  up  to  your  house?  " 

"Eliza,  do  you  mean?"  said  they,  with  just  a  slight  in- 
tonation to  signify  that  they  did  not  look  upon  her  as  a 
"  Miss."  Their  further  answer  represented  the  exact  extent 
of  their  knowledge  in  the  matter.  "  She  didn't  come  much 
for  a  good  while,  but  last  week  she  came  to  tea.  It  is 
arranged  for  mamma  to  ask  her  to  tea  once  in  a  while,  and 
we're  all  to  try  and  be  nice  to  her,  because — well,  our  sis- 
ter says,  now  that  people  pay  her  attentions,  she  ought  to 
have  a  place  where  she  can  come  to,  where  she  can  feel 
she  has  friends." 

"How  d'ye  mean — 'pay  her  attentions  '?" 

"That  was  what  we  heard  sister  Sophia  say,"  they  re- 
plied, pursing  up  their  little  lips.  They  knew  perfectly 
well  what  the  phrase  meant,  but  they  were  not  going  to 
confess  it.  The  arts  of  those  who  are  on  the  whole  artless 
are  very  pretty. 

"  Say,  d'ye  think  Miss  White's  got  the  least  bit  of  a  heart 
about  her  anywheres?" 

"We  don't  know  exactly  what  you  mean" — with  dignity 
— "but  one  of  the  ladies  who  boards  at  the  hotel  told 
mamma  that  Eliza  'always  behaves  admirably  ';  that's  part 
of  the  reason  we're  having  her  to  tea." 

"Did  she,  though?    If  having  about  as  much  feeling  as 

this  fence  has  is  such  fine  behaviour !"     He  stopped, 

apparently  not  knowing  exactly  how  to  end  his  sentence. 


11 

I' 


242 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOIVS 


[hook  II 


Tlie  girls  began  to  recede.  The  gi'ass  grew  so  thin  and 
dry  that  they  did  little  harm  by  passing  through  it.  It 
sprang  up  in  front  of  their  feet  as  they  moved  backwards 
in  their  white  dresses.  All  colour  had  passed  from  the 
earth.  The  ripple  of  the  river  and  the  cry  of  the  whip- 
poor-will  rose  amid  the  murmur  of  the  night  insects. 

"Dc  you  sometimes  come  down  here  of  an  evening?" 
asked  the  young  man.     "At  sunset  it's  real  pleasant." 

"Sometimes,"  answered  Blue.  I£er  soft  voice  only  just 
reached  him. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


I 


III 


[I 


So  the  days  wore  on  till  August.  One  morning  Cyril 
Harkness  lay  in  wait  for  Eliza.  It  was  early;  none  of  the 
boarders  at  the  hotel  were  down  yet.  Eliza,  who  was 
always  about  in  very  good  time,  found  him  in  the  corridor 
on  the  first  floor.  He  did  not  often  attempt  to  speak  to 
her  now. 

"Say,"  said  he,  gloomily,  "come  into  my  office.  I've 
something  to  tell." 

The  gloom  of  his  appearance,  so  unusual  to  him,  gave  her 
a  presage  of  misfortune.  She  followed  him  into  the  room 
of  dental  appliances. 

He  told  her  to  sit  down,  and  she  did  so.  She  sat  on  a 
stiff  sofa  against  the  wall.  He  stood  with  one  elbow  on 
the  back  of  the  adjustable  chair.  Behind  him  hung  a  green 
rep  curtain,  which  screened  a  table  at  which  he  did  me- 
chanical work.  They  were  a  handsome  pair.  The  summer 
morning  filled  the  room  with  light,  and  revealed  no  flaw  in 
their  young  comeliness. 

"Look  here!  It's  January,  February,  March" — he  went 
on  enumerating  the  months  till  he  came  to  August — "  that 
I've  been  hanging  on  here  for  no  other  earthly  reason  than 
to  inspire  in  you  the  admiration  for  me  that  rises  in  me  for 
you  quite  spontaneous." 


CHAP.  XV]  WHAT  NECESSITY  K'VOIVS 


343 


"Is  that  all  you  have  to  say?" 

"Isn't  that  enough — eight  months  out  of  a  young  man's 
life?" 

"  It's  not  enough  to  make  me  waste  my  time  at  this  hour 
in  the  morning." 

"Well,  it's  not  all,  but  it's  what  I'm  going  to  say  first; 
so  you'll  ha^  e  to  listen  to  it  for  my  good  before  you  listen 
to  the  other  for  your  own.  I've  done  all  I  could,  Miss 
White,  to  win  your  affection." 

He  paused,  looking  at  her,  but  she  did  not  even  look  at 
him.  She  did  appear  frightened,  and,  perceiving  this,  he 
took  a  tone  more  gentle  and  pliant. 

"  I  can't  think  why  you  won't  keep  company  with  me. 
I'm  a  real  lovable  young  man,  if  you'd  only  look  at  the 
thing  fairly." 

He  had  plenty  of  humour  in  him,  but  he  did  not  seem  to 
perceive  the  humour  of  acting  as  showman  to  himself.  He 
was  evidently  sincere. 

"  Why,  now,  one  of  my  most  lovable  qualities  is  just  that 
when  I  do  attach  myself  I  find  it  awful  hard  to  pull  loose 
again.  Now,  that's  just  what  you  don't  like  in  me;  but  if 
you  come  to  think  of  it,  it's  a  real  nice  characteristic.  And 
then,  again,  I'm  not  cranky;  I'm  real  amiable;  and  you 
can't  find  a  much  nicer  looking  fellow  than  me.  You'll 
be  sorry,  you  may  believe,  if  you  don't  cast  a  more  favoura- 
ble eye  toward  me." 

She  did  not  reply,  so  he  continued  urging.  "If  it's  be- 
cause you're  stuck  up,  it  must  have  been  those  poor  English 
-iCexfords  put  it  into  your  head,  for  you  couldn't  have  had 
such  ideas  before  you  came  here.  Now,  if  that's  the  barrier 
between  us,  I  can  tell  you  it  needn't  stand,  for  I  could 
have  one  of  those  two  pretty  young  ladies  of  theirs  quick 
as  not.  If  I  said  'Come,  my  dear,  let's  go  off  by  train  and 
get  married,  and  ask  your  father's  blessing  after,'  she'd 


come. 


» 


"  How  dare  you  tell  me  such  a  falsehood !  "    Eliza  rose 
magnificently. 


li 


'( 


1 


244 


irilAT  NEC  ESS /TV  KNOll'S 


[hook  II 


"Oh,"  said  he,  "1  meet  tliem  occasionally." 

She  looked  at  him  in  utter  disdain.  She  did  not  believe 
him ;  it  was  only  a  ruse  to  attract  her.   ■ 

"How  do  you  know,"  she  asked  fiercely,  "what  ideas  I 
could  have  had  or  not  before  I  went  to  the  llexfords?" 

"  That's  a  part  of  what  I  was  going  to  say  next " — she 
sat  down  again — "  but  I  don't  icant  to  hurt  you,  mind.  I'd 
make  it  real  easy  for  you  if  you'd  let  me  cherish  you." 

"  What  have  you  to  say?" 

"Just  this — that  it'll  all  have  to  come  out  some  timej 
you  know  to  what  I  allude." 

She  did  not  look  as  if  she  knew. 

"  Upon  my  word ! "  he  ejaculated  admiringly,  "  you  do 
beat  all." 

"  Well,  what  are  you  talking  of?  "  she  asked. 

"'  In  this  world  or  the  next,  all  you've  done  will  be  made 
public,  you  know,"  he  replied,  not  without  tone  of  menace. 
"But  what  I  want  to  speak  about  now  is  Father  Cameron. 
I*ve  got  him  here,  and  I've  never  regretted  the  bread  and 
shelter  I  give  him,  for  he's  a  real  nice  old  gentleman;  but  I 
can't  help  him  going  to  people's  houses  and  putting  ideas 
into  their  heads — no  more  than  the  wind,  I  can't  keep  him. 
He's  crazed,  poor  old  gentleman,  that's  what  he  is." 

"  You  ought  never  to  have  brought  him  here." 

"  lou'd  rather  he'd  been  stoned  in  Quebec  streets?  "  He 
looked  at  her  steadily.  "  It's  because  they  all  more  than 
half  believe  that  he  got  his  ideas  when  dead,  and  then 
came  to  life  again,  that  he  gets  into  harm.  If  it  wasn't 
for  that  tale  against  him  he'd  not  have  been  hurt  in  Que- 
bec, and  he'd  not  be  believed  by  tlie  folks  here." 

"I  thought  you  believed  that  too." 

He  gave  her  a  peculiar  smile.  "  If  you  was  to  say  right 
out  now  in  public  that  you  knew  he  wasn't  the  man  they 
take  him  for,  but  only  a  poor  maniac  who  don't  know  who 
he  is  himself,  you'd  put  an  end  to  the  most  part  of  his 
influence." 

"What  do  I  know  about  it?"  she  asked  scornfully j  but, 


CHAP.  XV] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


245 


in  liaste  to  divert  him  from  an  answer,  she  went  on,  "  I 
don't  see  tliat  he  does  any  liarm,  any  way.  You  say  your- 
self he's  as  good  as  can  be." 

"So  he  is,  poor  gentleman;  but  he's  mad,  and  getting 
madder.  I  don't  know  exactly  what's  brewing,  but  I  tell 
you  this,  there's  going  to  be  trouble  of  some  sort  before 
long." 

"What  sort?" 

"  Well,  for  one  thing,  drunken  Job  is  calling  out  in  the 
rum-hole  that  he'll  kill  his  wife  if  he  finds  her  up  to  any 
more  religious  nonsense;  and  she  is  up  to  something  of 
that  sort,  and  he's  quite  able  to  do  it,  too.  I  heard  him 
beating  her  the  other  night." 

Eliza  shuddered. 

"I'm  a  kind-hearted  fellow.  Miss  White,"  he  went  on, 
with  feeling  in  his  voice.  "  I  can't  bear  to  feel  that  there's 
something  hanging  over  the  heads  of  people  like  her — 
more  than  one  of  them  perhaps — and  that  they're  being  led 
astray  when  they  might  be  walking  straight  on  after  their 
daily  avocations." 

"  But  what  can  they  be  going  to  do?  "  she  asked  incredu- 
lously, but  with  curious  anxiety. 

"Blest  if  I  know!  but  I've  heard  that  old  man  a-praying 
about  what  he  called  *  the  coming  of  the  Lord, '  and  talking 
about  having  visions  of  'the  day  and  the  month,'  till  I've 
gone  a'most  distracted,  for  otherwise  he  does  pray  so  beau- 
tiful it  reminds  me  of  my  mother.  He's  talking  n*  'those 
poor  sheep  in  the  wilderness,'  and  'leading  them'  to  some- 
thing. He's  mad,  and  there's  a  dozen  of  them  ready  to  do 
any  mad  thing  he  says." 

"  You  ought  to  go  and  tell  the  ministers — tell  the  men  of 
the  town." 

"Not  I — nice  fool  I'd  look!  What  in  this  world  have  I 
to  accuse  him  of,  except  what  I've  heard  him  praying 
about?  I've  done  myself  harm  enough  by  having  him 
here." 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  then?  " 


246 


PV//AT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[nooK  II 


"Whatever  you  like;  I've  told  you  tlie  truth.  There 
was  a  carter  at  Turrifs  drunk  liimself  to  death  because  of 
this  unfortunate  Mr.  Cameron's  rising  again — that's  one 
murder;  and  there'll  be  another." 

With  that  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  left  her  in  his  own 
room.  He  only  turned  once  to  look  in  at  the  door  again. 
"If  youWe  in  any  trouble,  I'm  real  soft-hearted,  Eliza;  I'll 
be  real  good  to  you,  though  you've  been  crusty  to  me." 

If  she  was  in  trouble  then,  she  did  not  show  it  to  him. 


^  *f 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

NoTniNG  contributes  more  frequently  to  indecision  of 
character  in  the  larger  concerns  of  existence  than  a  life 
overcrowded  with  effort  and  performance.  Had  Robert 
Trenholme  not  been  living  at  too  great  a  pace,  his  will, 
naturally  energetic,  would  not,  during  that  spring  and 
summer,  have  halted  as  it  did  between  his  love  for  Sophia 
Rexford  and  his  shame  concerning  his  brother's  trade. 
With  the  end  of  June  his  school  had  closed  for  the  summer, 
but  at  that  time  the  congregation  at  his  little  church 
greatly  increased;  then,  too,  he  had  repairs  in  the  college 
to  superintend,  certain  articles  to  write  for  a  Church  jour- 
nal, interesting  pupils  to  correspond  with — in  a  word,  his 
energy,  which  sometimes  by  necessity  and  sometimes  by 
ambition  had  become  regulated  to  too  quick  a  pace,  would 
not  now  allow  him  to  take  leisure  when  it  offered,  or  even 
to  perceive  the  opportunity.  His  mind,  habituated  to 
unrest,  was  perpetually  suggesting  to  him  things  needing 
to  be  done,  and  he  always  saw  a  mirage  of  leisure  in  front 
of  him,  and  went  on  the  faster  in  order  to  come  up  to  it. 
By  this  mirage  he  constantly  vowed  to  himself  that  when 
the  opportunity  came  he  would  take  time  to  think  out 
some  things  whicli  had  grown  indistinct  to  him.  At 
present  the  discomfort  and  sorrow  of  not  feeling  at  liberty 


Iii 


CHAP.  XVI]         IVJIAT  NECESSrir  KNOWS 


247 


y 

Id 


it 
it 

iy 


to  make  love  to  the  woman  ho  lovi'd  was  some  excuse  for 
avoiding  thought,  and  he  found  distraction  in  hard  work 
and  social  engagements.  With  regard  to  Sophia  he  stayed 
his  mind  on  the  belief  that  if  he  dared  not  woo  she  was 
not  being  wooed,  either  by  any  man  who  was  his  rival,  or 
by  those  luxuries  and  tranquillities  of  life  which  nowadays 
often  lure  young  women  to  prefer  single  blessedness. 

In  the  meantime  he  felt  he  had  done  what  he  could  by 
writing  again  and  again,  and  even  telegraphing,  to  Turrifs 
Station.  It  is  a  great  relief  to  the  modern  mind  to  tele- 
graph when  impatient;  but  when  there  is  nothing  at  the 
other  end  of  the  wire  but  an  operator  who  is  under  no  offi- 
cial obligation  to  deliver  the  message  at  an  address  many 
miles  distant,  the  action  has  only  the  utility  already  men- 
tioned— the  relief  it  gives  to  the  mind  of  the  sender.  The 
third  week  in  August  came,  and  yet  he  had  heard  nothing 
more  from  Alec.  Still,  Alec  had  said  he  would  come  in 
summer,  and  if  the  promise  was  kept  lie  could  not  now  be 
long,  and  Kobert  clung  to  the  hope  that  he  would  return 
with  ambitions  toward  some  higher  sphere  of  life,  and  in  a 
better  mind  concerning  the  advisa])ility  of  not  being  too 
loquacious  about  his  former  trade. 

In  this  hope  he  took  oi)portunity  one  day  about  this  time, 
when  calling  on  Mrs.  Rexford,  to  mention  that  Alec  was 
probably  coming.  He  desired,  he  said,  to  have  the  pleas- 
ure of  introducing  him  to  her. 

"He  is  very  true  and  simple-hearted,"  said  the  elder 
brother;  "and  from  the  photograph  you  have  seen,  you 
will  know  he  is  a  sturdy  lad. "  He  spoke  with  a  certain  air 
of  depression,  which  Sophia  judged  to  relate  to  wild  oats 
she  supposed  this  Alec  to  be  sowing.  "  He  was  always  his 
dear  father's  favourite  boy,"  added  Trenholme,  with  a 
quite  involuntary  sigh. 

"A  Benjamin!  "  cried  Mrs.  Rexford,  but,  with  that  quick- 
ness of  mind  natural  to  her,  she  did  not  pause  an  instant 
over  the  thought. 

"  Well,  really,  Principal  Trenholme,  it'll  be  a  comfort  to 


248 


IVHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  II 


you  to  have  him  under  your  own  eye.  I  often  say  to  my 
husband  that  that  must  be  cur  comfort  now — that  the 
chiklren  are  all  under  our  eye;  and,  indeed,  with  but  one 
sitting-room  furnished,  and  so  little  outing  except  in  our 
own  fields,  it  couldn't  well  be  otherwise.  It's  an  advantage 
in  a  way." 

"A  doubtful  advantage  in  some  ways,"  said  Sophia;  but 
the  little  children  were  now  heard  crying,  so  she  ran  from 
the  room. 

"Ah,  Principal  Trenholme,"  cried  the  little  step-mother, 
shaking  her  head  (she  was  sewing  most  vigorously  the 
while),  "if  my  children  will  but  profit  by  lier  example! 
But,  indeed,  I  t  ;proach  myself  that  she  is  here  at  all, 
although  she  came  against  my  desire.  Sophia  is  not  in- 
volved in  our — I  might  say  poverty,  Principal  Trenholme." 
(It  was  the  first  time  the  word  had  crossed  her  lips, 
although  she  always  conversed  freely  to  him.)  "When  I 
see  the  farm  producing  so  little  in  comparison,  I  may  say, 
in  confidence,  poverty;  but  Sophia  has  sufficient  income  of 
her  own." 

"I  did  not  know  that,"  said  Trenholme,  sincerely. 

"  She  came  with  us,  for  we  couldn't  think  of  taking  any 
of  it  for  the  house  expenses  if  she  was  away;  and,  as  it's 
not  large,  it's  the  more  sacrifice  she  makes.  But  Sophia — 
Sophia  might  have  been  a  very  rich  woman  if  she'd  married 
the  man  she  was  engaged  to.  Mr.  Monckton  was  only  too 
anxious  to  settle  everything  upon  her." 

Trenholme  had  positively  started  at  these  words.  He 
did  not  hear  the  next  remark.  The  eight  years  just  passed 
of  Sophia's  life  were  quite  unknown  to  him,  and  this  was  a 
revelation.     He  began  to  hear  the  talk  again. 

"My  husband  said  the  jointure  was  quite  remarkable. 
And  then  the  carriages  and  gowns  he  would  have  given! 
You  should  have  seen  the  jewels  she  had!  And  poor  Mr. 
Monckton — it  was  one  month  off  the  day  the  wedding  was 
fixed  for  when  she  broke  it  off.  Suddenly  she  would  have 
none  of  it." 


CHAP.  XVI]  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


249 


Trying  to  piece  together  these  staccato  jottings  by  what 
he  knew  of  the  character  of  his  love,  Trenholme's  mind  was 
sore  with  curiosity  about  it  all,  especially  with  regard  to 
the  character  of  Mr.  Monckton. 

"  Perhaps  " — he  spoke  politely,  as  if  excusing  the  fickle- 
ness of  the  absent  woman — "  perhaps  some  fresh  knowledge 
concerning  the  gentleman  reached  Miss  Rexford." 

"  For  many  a  year  we  had  known  all  that  was  to  be  known 
about  Mr.  Monckton,"  declared  the  mother,  vigorously. 
"  Sophia  changed  her  mind.  It  was  four  years  ago,  but  she 
might  be  Mrs.  Monckton  in  a  month  if  she'd  say  the  word. 
He  has  never  been  consoled;  her  father  has  just  received  a 
letter  from  him  to-day  begging  him  to  renew  the  subject 
with  her;  but  when  Sophia  changes  once  she's  not  likely  to 
alter  again.     There's  not  one  in  a  thousand  to  equal  her." 

Trenholme  agreed  perfectly  with  the  conclusion,  even  if 
he  did  not  see  that  it  was  proved  by  the  premises.  He 
went  away  with  his  mind  much  agitated  and  tilled  with  new 
anxieties.  The  fact  that  she  had  once  consented  to  marry 
another  seemed  to  him  to  make  it  more  probable  that  she 
might  do  so  again.  He  had  allowed  himself  to  assume  that 
since  the  time  when  he  had  seen  her  as  a  young  girl,  the 
admired  of  all,  Sophia  had  drifted  entirely  out  of  that  sort 
of  relation  to  society;  but  now,  by  this  sudden  alarm,  she 
seemed  to  be  again  elevated  on  some  pinnacle  of  social  suc- 
cess beyond  his  reach.  It  struck  him,  too,  as  discouraging 
that  he  should  be  able  to  know  so  little  about  a  girl  he 
had  loved  in  a  vague  way  so  long,  and  now  for  a  time  so 
ardently,  and  who  had  dwelt  for  months  at  his  very  door. 
He  blamed  the  conventionalities  of  society  that  made  it 
impossible  for  him  to  ask  her  the  thousand  and  one  ques- 
tions he  fain  would  ask,  that  refused  him  permission  to  ask 
any  until  he  was  prepared  to  make  that  offer  which  involved 
the  explanation  from  which  he  shrank  so  much  that  he 
would  fain  know  precisely  what  degree  of  evil  he  must  ask 
her  to  face  before  he  asked  at  all.  He  told  himself  that  he 
shrank  not  so  much  on  account  of  his  own  dislike,  as  on 


it 


I 


! 


950 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  II 


f 


J 


account  of  the  difficulty  in  which  his  offer  and  explanation 
must  place  her  if  she  loved  him;  for  if  she  was  not  bound 
strongly  by  the  prejudices  of  her  class,  all  those  she  cared 
for  certainly  were.  On  the  other  hand,  if  she  did  not  love 
him,  then,  indeed,  he  had  reason  to  shrink  from  an  inter- 
view that  would  be  the  taking  away  of  all  his  hope.  Who 
would  not  wrestle  hard  with  hope  and  fear  before  facing 
such  an  alternative?  Certainly  not  a  man  of  Trenholme's 
stamp. 

It  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  decision  and  fearlessness 
are  always  the  attributes  of  strength.  Angels  will  hover 
in  the  equipoise  of  indecision  while  clowns  will  make  up 
their  minds.  Many  a  fool  will  rush  in  to  woo  and  win  a 
woman,  who  makes  her  after-life  miserable  by  inconsiderate 
dealings  with  incongruous  circumstance,  in  that  very  un- 
bending temper  of  mind  through  which  he  wins  at  first. 
Trenholme  did  not  love  the  less,  either  as  lover  or  brother, 
because  he  shrank,  as  from  the  galling  of  an  old  wound, 
when  the  family  trade  was  touched  upon.  He  was  not  a 
weaker  man  because  he  was  capable  of  this  long  suffering. 
That  nature  has  the  chance  to  be  the  strongest  whose  sensi- 
bilities have  the  power  to  draw  nourishment  of  pain  and 
pleasure  from  every  influence;  and  if  such  soul  prove  weak 
by  swerving  aside  because  of  certain  pains,  because  of 
stooping  from  the  upright  posture  to  gain  certain  pleasures, 
it  still  may  not  be  weaker  than  the  more  limited  soul  who 
knows  not  such  temptations.  If  Trenholme  had  swerved 
from  the  straight  path,  if  he  had  stooped  from  the  height 
which  nature  had  given  him,  the  result  of  his  fault  had  been 
such  array  of  reasons  and  excuses  that  he  did  not  now  know 
that  he  was  in  fault,  but  only  had  hateful  suspicion  of  it 
when  he  was  brought  to  the  pass  of  explaining  himself  to  his 
lady-love.  The  murmurs  of  an  undecided  conscience  seldom 
take  the  form  of  definite  self-accusa,tion.  They  did  not 
now;  and  Trenholme's  suspicion  that  he  was  in  the  wrong 
only  obtruded  itself  in  the  irritating  perception  that  his 
trouble  had  a  ludicrous  side.     It  would  have  been  easier  for 


CHAP,  xvii]         WHAT  ATECESS/TV  KNOWS 


251 


him  to  have  gone  to  Sophia  with  confession  of  some  family 
crime  or  tragedy  than  to  say  to  her,  "  My  father  was,  my 
brother  is,  a  butcher;  and  I  have  allowed  this  fact  to  remain 
untold !  "  It  was  not  that  he  did  not  intend  to  prove  to  her 
that  his  silence  on  this  subject  was  simply  wise;  he  still 
writhed  under  the  knowledge  that  such  confession,  if  it  did 
not  evoke  her  loving  sympathy,  might  evoke  her  merriment. 
That  afternoon,  however,  he  made  a  resolution  to  speak 
to  Sophia  before  another  twenty-four  hours  had  passed — a 
resolution  which  was  truly  natural  in  its  inconsistency ;  for, 
after  having  waited  for  months  to  hear  Alec's  purpose,  he 
to-day  decided  to  act  without  reference  to  him.  At  the 
thought  of  the  renewed  solicitation  of  another  lover,  his 
own  love  and  manliness  triumphed  over  everything  else. 
He  would  tell  her  fully  and  frankly  all  that  had  made  him 
hesitate  so  long,  and  of  his  long  admiration  for  her,  and  how 
dearly  he  now  loved  her.  He  would  not  urge  her;  he 
would  leave  the  choice  to  her.  This  resolution  was  not 
made  by  any  impulsive  yielding  to  a  storm  of  feeling,  nor  in 
the  calm  of  determined  meditation;  he  simply  made  up  his 
mind  in  the  course  of  that  afternoon's  occupation. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


li 


!      t 


I       i 


Trenholme  went  from  Mrs.  Eexford's  door  that  same  day 
to  pay  some  visits  of  duty  in  the  village.  The  afternoon 
was  warm,  and  exquisitely  bright  with  the  sort  of  dazzling 
brightness  that  sometimes  presages  rain.  On  his  return  he 
met  a  certain  good  man  who  was  the  Presbyterian  minister 
of  the  place.  The  Scotch  church  had  a  larger  following  in 
Chellaston  than  the  English.  The  clergyman  and  the  min- 
ister were  friends  of  a  sort,  a  friendship  which  was  culti- 
vated on  chance  occasions  as  much  from  the  desire  to 
exercise  and  display  largemindedness  as  from  the  drawings 
of  personal  sympathy.     The  meeting  this  afternoon  led  to 


252 


WHAT  NEC  ESS /TV  KNOWS 


[book  n 


their  walking  out  of  the  village  together;  and  wlien  the 
Scotchman  had  strolled  as  far  as  the  college  gate,  Tren- 
holme,  out  of  courtesy  and  interest  in  the  conversation, 
walked  a  mile  further  up  the  road  with  him. 

Very  beautiful  was  the  road  on  that  bright  summer  day. 
They  heard  the  ripple  of  the  river  faintly  where  it  was 
separated  from  them  by  the  Harmon  garden  and  the  old 
cemetery.  Further  on,  the  sound  of  the  water  came  nearer, 
for  there  was  only  the  wilderness  of  half  overgrown  pasture 
and  sumac  trees  between  them  and  it.  Tlien,  where  the 
river  curved,  they  came  by  its  bank,  road  and  river-side 
meeting  in  a  grove  of  majestic  pines.  The  ground  here  was 
soft  and  fragrant  with  the  pine  needles  of  half  a  century ; 
the  blue  water  curled  with  shadowed  wave  against  matted 
roots ;  the  swaying  firmament  was  of  lofty  branches,  and  the 
summer  wind  touched  into  harmony  a  million  tiny  harps. 
Minds  that  were  not  choked  with  their  own  activities  would 
surely  here  have  received  impressions  of  beauty ;  but  these 
two  men  were  engaged  in  important  conversation,  and  they 
only  gave  impassive  heed  to  a  scene  to  which  they  were 
well  accustomed. 

They  were  talking  about  improvements  and  additions 
which  Trenholme  hoped  to  get  made  to  the  college  build- 
ings in  the  course  of  a  few  '•ears.  The  future  of  the  college 
was  a  subject  in  which  he  could  always  become  absorbed, 
and  it  was  one  sufficiently  identified  with  the  best  interests 
of  the  country  to  secure  the  attention  of  his  listener.  In 
this  land,  where  no  church  is  established,  there  is  so  little 
bitterness  existing  between  different  religious  bodies,  that 
the  fact  that  the  college  was  under  Episcopal  management 
made  no  difference  to  the  Presbyterian's  goodwill  towards 
it.  He  sent  his  own  boys  to  school  there,  admired  Tren- 
holme's  enthusiastic  devotion  to  his  work,  and  believed  as 
firmly  as  the  Principal  himself  that  the  school  would 
become  a  great  university.  It  was  important  to  Trenholme 
that  this  man — that  any  man  of  influence,  should  believe  in 
him,  in  his  college,  and  in  the  great  future  of  both.     The 


CHAP.  XVII]         WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


253 


prosperity  of  his  work  depended  so  greatly  upon  the  good 
opinion  of  all,  that  he  had  grown  into  the  habit  of  consider- 
ing hours  well  spent  that,  like  this  one,  were  given  to  bring- 
ing another  into  sympathy  with  himself  in  the  matter  of 
the  next  projected  improvement.  It  was  thus  that  he  had 
advanced  his  work  step  by  step  since  he  came  to  Chellaston ; 
if  the  method  sometimes  struck  his  inner  self  as  a  little 
sordid,  the  work  was  still  a  noble  one,  and  the  method  nec- 
essary to  the  quick  enlargement  he  desired.  Both  men  were 
in  full  tide  of  talk  upon  the  necessity  for  a  new  gymnasium, 
its  probable  cost,  and  the  best  means  of  raising  the  money, 
when  they  walked  out  of  the  pine  shade  into  an  open  stretch 
of  the  road. 

Soft,  mountainous  clouds  of  snowy  whiteness  were  wing- 
ing their  way  across  the  brilliant  blue  of  the  sky.  The 
brightness  of  the  light  had  wiped  all  warm  colour  from  the 
landscape.  The  airy  shadows  of  the  clouds  coursed  over  a 
scene  in  which  the  yellow  of  ripened  fields,  the  green  of  the 
woods  on  Chellaston  Mountain,  and  the  blue  of  the  distance, 
were  only  brought  to  the  eye  in  the  pale,  cool  tones  of  high 
light.  The  road  and  the  river  ran  together  now  as  far  as 
might  be  seen,  the  one  almost  pure  white  in  its  inch-deep 
dust,  the  other  tumbling  rapidly,  a  dancing  mirror  for  the 
light. 

The  talkers  went  on,  unmindful  of  dust  and  heat.  Then 
a  cloud  came  between  them  and  the  sun,  changing  the  hue 
of  all  things  for  the  moment.  This  lured  them  further. 
The  oat  harvest  was  ready.  The  reaping  machines  were 
already  in  the  fields  far  and  near,  making  noise  like  that  of 
some  new  enormous  insect  of  rattling  throat.  From  road- 
side trees  the  cicada  vied  with  them,  making  the  welkin 
ring. 

There  were  labourers  ?.b  various  occupations  in  the  fields, 
but  on  the  dusty  stretch  of  road  there  was  only  one  traveller 
to  be  seen  in  front  of  the  two  companions.  When  they 
gained  upon  him  they  recognised  the  old  preacher  who  went 
by  the  name  of  Cameron.     The  poor  old  wanderer  had  beea 


^ 


254 


IVHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  II 


a  nine  days'  wonder;  now  his  presence  elicited  no  comment. 
He  was  walking  cap  in  hand  in  the  sunshine,  just  as  he  had 
walked  in  the  winter  snoAv.  To  Trenholme  the  sight  of  him 
brought  little  impression  beyond  a  reminder  of  his  brother's 
wayward  course.  It  always  brought  that  reminder;  and 
now,  underneath  the  flow  of  his  talk  about  college  buildings, 
was  the  thought  that,  if  all  were  done  and  said  that  might 
be,  it  was  possible  that  it  would  be  expedient  for  the  future 
of  the  New  College  that  the  present  principal  should  resign. 
This  was,  of  course,  an  extreme  view  of  the  results  of  Alec's 
interference;  but  Trenholme  had  accustomed  himself  to 
look  at  his  bugbear  in  all  lights,  the  most  extreme  as  well 
as  the  most  moderate.  That  for  the  future;  and,  for 
immediate  agitation,  there  was  his  resolution  to  speak  to 
Sophia.  As  he  walked  and  talked,  his  heart  was  wrestling 
with  multiform  care. 

With  one  of  those  welcome  surprises  which  Nature  can 
bestow,  the  big  swinging  cloud  which  had  shadowed  their 
bit  of  earth  for  a  few  minutes  and  then  passed  off  the  sun 
again,  now  broke  upon  them  in  a  heavy  shower.  They  saw 
the  rain  first'  falling  on  Chellaston  Mountain,  which  was 
only  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant,  falling  in  the  sun- 
shine like  perpendicular  rays  of  misty  light;  then  it  swept 
down  upon  them ;  but  so  bright  v/as  the  sunshine  the  while 
that  it  took  them  a  few  minutes  to  realise  that  this  dazzling 
shower  could  actually  be  wet.  Its  drenching  character  was 
made  apparent  by  the  sight  of  field  labourers  running  to  a 
great  spreading  maple  for  shelter;  then  they,  literally  hav- 
ing regard  to  their  cloth,  ran  also  and  joined  the  group. 
They  passed  the  old  man  on  the  road,  but  when  they  were 
all  under  the  tree  he  also  came  towards  it. 

There  is  no  power  in  the  art  of  words,  or  of  painting,  or 
of  music,  to  fully  describe  the  perfect  gratefulness  of  a 
shower  on  a  thirsty  day.  The  earth  and  all  that  belongs 
to  her  thrill  with  the  refreshing,  and  the  human  heart  feels 
the  thrill  just  in  so  far  as  it  is  one  with  the  great  plan  of 
nature,  and  has  not  cut  itself  off  from  the  whole  by  egotism 


CHAP.  XVII]         WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


255 


as  a  dead  branch  ih  cut.  All  under  the  tree  were  pleased  in 
their  own  way.  The  labourers  cooled  their  sweating  brows 
by  wiping  them  with  the  shirtsleeves  the  rain  had  wet; 
Trenholme  and  his  friend  saw  with  contentment  the  dust 
laid  upon  their  road,  listened  to  the  chirp  of  birds  that  had 
been  silent  before,  and  watched  the  raindrops  dance  high 
upon  the  sunny  surface  of  the  river. 

The  old  man  came  quietly  to  them.  The  rain  falling 
through  sunshine  made  a  silver  glory  in  the  air  in  which 
he  walked  saintlike,  his  hoary  locks  spangled  with  the  shin- 
ing baptism.  He  did  not  heed  that  his  old  clothes  were 
wet.  His  strong,  aged  face  was  set  as  though  looking 
onward  and  upward,  with  tlie  joyful  expression  habitual 
to  it. 

Trenholme  and  his  friend  were  not  insensible  to  the  pic- 
ture. They  were  remarking  upon  it  when  the  old  man 
came  into  their  midst.  There  was  something  more  of  keen- 
ness and  brightness  in  his  mien  than  was  common  to  him ; 
some  influence,  either  of  the  healing  summer  or  of  inward 
joy,  seemed  to  have  made  the  avenues  of  his  senses  more 
accessible. 

"  Sirs,"  he  said,   '  do  you  desire  the  coming  of  the  Lord?  " 

He  asked  the  question  quite  simply,  and  Trenholme,  as 
one  humours  a  village  innocent,  replied,  "  We  hope  we  are 
giving  our  lives  to  advance  His  kingdom." 

"But  the  King"  said  the  old  man.  "He  is  coming.  Do 
you  cry  to  Him  to  come  quickly?" 

"We  hope  and  trust  we  shall  see  Him  in  His  own  time," 
said  Trenholme,  still  benignly. 

"His  own  time  is  suddenly,  in  the  night,"  cried  the  old 
man,  "  when  the  Church  is  sleeping,  when  her  children  are 
^anting  and  building,  selling,  buying,  and  marrying — that 
is  His  time.  We  shall  see  Him.  We  shall  see  His  face 
when  we  tell  Him  that  we  love  Him;  we  shall  hear  His 
voice  when  he  tells  us  tb" '  He  loves  us.  We  shall  see  Him 
when  we  pray ;  we  sliall .  Him  give  the  answer.  Sirs, 
do  you  desire  that  He  should  come  now,  and  reign  over  you?  " 


ifi 


f 


256 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[hook  II 


The  labourers  bestirred  themselves  and  came  nearer. 
The  old  man  had  always  the  power  of  transmitting  his 
excitements  to  others,  so  that,  strangely,  they  felt  it  in- 
cumbent upon  them  to  answer.  One,  a  duU-looking  man, 
answered  "yes,"  with  conventional  piety.  Another  said 
sincerely  that  he  would  like  to  get  the  oats  in  first.  Then, 
when  the  first  effect  of  the  enthusiast's  influence  was  passing 
off,  they  began  to  rebel  at  having  this  subject  thrust  uj)on 
them.  A  youth  said  rudely  that,  as  there  were  two  parsons 
there,  Father  Cameron  was  not  called  on  to  preach. 

The  old  man  fixed  his  questioning  look  on  Trenholme. 
"He  will  come  to  reign,"  he  cried,  "to  exalt  the  lowly  and 
meek,  to  satisfy  the  men  who  hunger  for  righteousness;  and 
the  pure  in  heart  shall  live  with  Him.  Sir,  do  you  desire 
that  He  shall  come  now?" 

Trenholme  did  not  give  answer  as  before. 

"Poor  fellow,"  said  the  Presbyterian,  pityingly. 

The  shower  was  passing  over,  and  they  moved  away. 

The  old  man  lifted  his  arm,  and  pointed  to  the  mountain 
that  stood  in  all  the  beauty  of  its  wet  verdure.  He  looked 
round  upon  them  all,  and  there  was  unusual  show  of  ex- 
citement in  his  manner. 

"I  have  a  message  to  you,"  he  said.  "Before  another 
Lord's  day  comes,  He  wilPcome." 

The  two  ministers  heard  him  as  they  walked  away,  and 
the  Scotchman  thought  to  go  back  and  reprove  such  an 
audacious  word. 

"  He  is  mad;  they  all  know  that  he  is  mad,"  urged  Tren- 
holme, dissuading  him. 

They  looked  back,  and  saw  the  old  man  still  preaching 
to  the  labourers  under  the  tree.  A  mare  with  its  foal,  and 
two  half-grown  colts,  had  come  up  to  an  open  fence  within 
the  tree's  shadow,  and,  with  their  long  gentle  heads  hang- 
ing over,  they  too  seemed  to  be  listening. 

The  Scotchman,  exhilarated  by  the  cooling  of  the  atmos- 
phere, genially  invited  Trenholme  to  a  longer  walk.  Chel- 
laston  Mountain,  with  its  cool  shades  and  fine  prospect, 


In 


CHAP,  xviii]        WHAT  NECESS/TV  KNOIVS 


257 


was  very  near.  A  lane  turned  from  the  high  road,  which 
led  to  the  luountain's  base.  A  hospitable  farmhouse  stood 
where  the  mountain  path  began  to  ascend,  suggesting  sure 
offer  of  an  evening  meal.  Trenholme  looked  at  the  peace- 
ful lane,  the  beautiful  hill,  and  all  the  sunny  loveliness  of 
the  land,  and  refused  the  invitation.  He  had  not  time,  he 
said. 

So  they  walked  back  the  mile  they  had  come,  and  Tren- 
holme little  thought  how  soon,  and  with  what  agitation,  he 
would  pass  that  way  again. 


\\ 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


id 
ui 

In- 

id 
lin 

jg- 


btv 


The  next  day,  before  Trenholme  had  had  time  to  devise 
a  plan  for  seeing  Miss  Rexford,  Mrs.  Martha  brought  him 
a  telegram.  She  watched  him  as  he  drew  his  linger  through, 
the  poor  paper  of  the  envelope,  watched  him  as  one  might 
watch  another  on  the  eve  of  some  decisive  event;  yet  she 
could  not  have  expected  much  from  a  telegram — they  came 
too  often. 

"Ha!  "  cried  Trenholme,  "we  are  going  to  have  visitors, 
Mrs.  Martha." 

A  good  deal  to  Trenholme's  surprise,  the  message  was 
from  Alec,  and  from  a  point  no  further  away  than  Quebec. 
It  stated  that  he  was  there  with  Bates,  who  was  ill,  and  he 
thought  the  best  thing  would  be  to  bring  him  with  him  to 
Chellaston,  if  his  brother  had  house-room  enough. 

The  answers  we  give  to  such  appeals  are  more  often  the 
outcome  of  life-long  habit  than  instances  of  separate  voli- 
tion. No  question  of  what  answer  to  send  occurred  to 
Trenholme's  mind  as  he  pencilled  his  reply,  assuring  a 
welcome  to  the  sick  man. 

When  the  answer  was  despatched  he  saw  that,  as  fate  had 
thrust  the  notice  of  this  arrival  between  him  and  the  pro- 
posed interview  with  Sophia,  it  would  be  better,  after  all, 


I 


258 


WHAT  NEC  ESS /TV  KNOWS 


[book  II 


'■  i 


to  wait  only  a  day  or  two  more,  until  he  knew  his  brother's 
mind. 

He  heard  nothing  more  from  Alec  that  day.  The  day 
after  was  Saturday,  and  it  rained  heavily. 

"What  time  will  the  gentlemen  arrive?"  asked  Mrs. 
Martha,  but  not  as  if  she  took  much  interest  in  the  matter. 

"I  can't  tell,"  he  replied.  "They  will  probably  let  us 
know;  but  it's  best  to  be  ready  when  guests  may  come  any 
time,  isn't  it?  " 

He  asked  her  this  with  a  cheering  smile,  because  her 
manner  was  strange,  and  he  wished  to  rouse  her  to  a  sense 
of  her  duties.  

"Yes,  sir;  'twouldn't  seem  like  as  if  we  was  truly 
expecting  and  hoping  unless  we  did  our  best  to  be  ready." 

The  fervour  of  her  answer  surprised  him. 

For  some  time  past  Winifred  Kexford  had  been  spending 
part  of  each  morning  learning  housewifery  of  Mrs.  Martha. 
That  day,  because  of  the  rain,  Trenholme  insisted  upon 
keeping  her  to  dinner  with  him.  He  brought  her  into  his 
dining-room  with  playful  force,  and  set  her  at  the  head  of 
his  table.  It  was  a  great  pleasure  to  him  to  have  the 
child.  He  twitted  her  with  her  improvement  in  the  culi- 
nary art,  demanding  all  sorts  of  impossible  dishes  in  the 
near  future  for  his  brother's  entertainment.  He  was  sur- 
prised at  the  sedateness  of  her  answers,  and  at  a  strange 
look  of  excited  solicitude  that  arose  in  her  eyes.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  she  was  several  times  on  the  point  of 
saying  something  to  him,  and  yet  she  did  not  speak. 

"What  is  it.  Princess  Win?"  he  cried.  "What  is  in 
your  mind,  little  one?" 

He  came  to  the  conclusion  that  she  was  not  very  well. 
He  got  no  information  from  her  on  the  subject  of  her 
health  or  anything  else;  but  thinking  naturally  that  the 
change  in  the  weather  might  have  given  her  cold,  he  took 
pains  to  wrap  her  in  his  own  mackintosh  and  take  her 
home  under  his  own  large  umbrella. 
^    When  there,  he  went  in.     He  was  greatly  cheered  by  the 


CHAP.  XVIII]        IVHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


259 


idea  that,  although  he  might  not  tell  his  mind  that  day, 
he  was  now  and  henceforth  courting  Sophia  openly,  what- 
ever befell:  but  the  open  courting,  since  it  had  only  begun 
with  his  resolution  of  yesterday,  and  existed  only  in  his 
own  intention,  was  naturally  not  recognised.  He  was  re- 
ceived with  the  ordinary  everyday  friendliness.  But  a 
change  had  occurred  in  the  family  circumstances,  nothing 
less  than  that  they  sat  now  in  the  long  neglected  and  still 
unfurnished  room  which  went  by  the  name  of  the  drawing- 
room.  The  windows  had  been  thrown  open,  and  the  cover- 
ing taken  from  the  family  carriage.  There  it  stood,  still 
wheelless,  but  occupied  now  by  Sophia  and  Mrs.  Kexford, 
the  girls  and  the  darning  basket,  while  some  of  the  chil- 
dren climbed  upon  the  box.  Blue  and  Red,  who  were 
highly  delighted  with  the  arrangement,  explained  it  to 
Trenholme. 

"  You  see,  we  had  a  carriage  we  couldn't  use,  and  a  room 
we  couldn't  use  for  want  of  furniture;  so  this  rainy  day, 
when  we  all  were  so  tired  of  the  other  room,  mamma  sud- 
denly thought  that  we'd  make  the  carriage  do  for  furniture. 
It's  the  greatest  fun  possible."  They  gave  little  jumps  on 
the  soft  cushions,  and  were  actually  darning  with  some 
energy  on  account  of  the  change. 

Trenholme  shook  hands  with  the  carriage  folk  in  the  gay 
manner  necessary  to  the  occasion,  but  his  heart  ached  for 
the  little  mother  who  had  thus  so  bravely  buried  her  last 
vestige  of  pride  in  the  carriage  by  giving  it  to  her  children 
as  a  plaything. 

"It's  more  comfortable  than  armchairs,  and  keeps  the 
feet  from  the  bare  floor, "  she  said  to  him,  in  defiance  of 
any  criticisms  he  might  have  in  mind.  But  all  his  thought 
was  with  and  for  her,  and  in  this  he  was  pleased  to  see  that 
he  had  divined  Sophia's  mind,  for,  after  adding  her  warm 
but  brief  praise  to  the  new  arrangement,  she  changed  the 
subject. 

Winifred  went  upstairs  quietly.  Trenholme  suggested 
that  he  hardly  thought  her  looking  quite  well. 


26o 


WHAT  NEC  ESS /TV  KNOWS 


[book  II 


u  d 


Slie's  an  odd  child,"  said  Sophia.  "I  did  not  tell  you, 
mamma,  what  I  found  her  doing  tlie  other  day.  She  was 
trying  on  the  white  frock  she  had  tliis  spring  wlien  slie  was 
confirmed.  It's  unlike  her  to  do  a  thing  like  that  for  no 
reason;  and  when  I  teased  her  she  began  to  cry,  and  then 
began  speaking  to  me  about  religion.  She  has  been  puzzled 
by  the  views  your  housekeeper  holds,  Mr.  Trenholme,  and 
excited  by  old  Cameron's  teaching  about  the  end  of  the 
world." 

"  I  don't  think  it's  the  end  of  the  world  he's  prophesying 
exactly,"  said  Trenholme,  musingly.  "The  Adventists 
believe  that  the  earth  will  not  be  ruined,  but  glorified  by 
the  Second  Advent." 

"Children  should  not  hear  of  such  abstruse,  far-off 
things,"  observed  Mrs.  llexford;  "it  does  harm;  but  with 
no  nursery,  no  school-room,  what  can  one  do?" 

Trenholme  told  them  of  Alec's  telegram,  and  something 
of  what  he  knew  concerning  Bates.  His  own  knowledge 
was  scanty,  bub  he  had  not  even  said  all  he  might  have 
said  when  Mrs.  Eexford  politely  regretted  that  her  hus- 
band and  son,  taking  advantage  of  the  rain,  had  both  gone 
to  the  next  town  to  see  some  machinery  they  were  buying, 
and  would  be  away  over  Sunday,  otherwise  they  would  not 
have  missed  the  opportunity  offered  by  Sunday's  leisure 
to  call  upon  the  new-comers. 

"Oh,  he's  quite  a  common  working-man,  I  fancy,"  added 
Trenholme,  hastily,  surprised  at  the  gloss  his  words  had 
thrown  on  Bates's  position,  and  dimly  realising  that  his 
way  of  putting  things  might  perhaps  at  some  other  times 
be  as  misleading  as  it  had  just  that  moment  been. 

Then  he  went  away  rather  abruptly,  feeling  burdened 
with  the  further  apologies  she  made  with  respect  to  Alec. 


CHAP,  xlx]  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


261 


CIIArTER  XIX. 

Treniiolme  went  homo  and  sat  down  to  write  an  article 
for  a  magazine.  Its  subject  was  tlie  discipline  of  life.  He 
did  not  get  on  with  it  very  well.  He  rose  more  than  once 
to  look  at  the  weather-glass  and  the  weatlier.  Rain  came 
in  torrents,  ceasing  at  intervals.  The  clouds  swept  over, 
with  lighter  and  darker  spaces  among  them.  The  wind 
began  to  rise.  Thunder  was  in  the  air ;  as  it  became  dusk 
lightning  was  seen  in  the  far  distance. 

A  little  after  dark  he  heard  a  quick,  light  step  upon  the 
garden  path.  The  voice  of  the  young  dentist  was  audilde 
at  the  door,  and  Mrs.  Martha  ushered  him  into  the  study. 
Trenholme  had  felt  more  or  less  prejudice  against  this  fel- 
low since  he  had  become  aware  that  he  was  in  some  way 
connected  with  the  incident  that  had  discomforted  his 
brother  in  his  lonely  station.  He  looked  at  him  with  a 
glance  of  severe  inquiry. 

"I'm  re,al  sorry  to  disturb  you,"  said  the  dentist;  "but, 
upon  my  word,  I'm  uneasy  in  my  mind.  I've  lost  old  Mr. 
Cameron." 

It  occurred  to  Trenholme  now  for  the  first  time  since  he 
had  heard  of  Bates's  coming  that  he.  Bates,  was  the  very 
man  whc  could  speak  with  authority  as  to  whether  the  old 
man  in  question  had  a  right  to  the  name  of  Cameron.  He 
wondered  if  the  American  could  possibly  have  private 
knowledge  of  Bates's  movements,  and  knew  that  his  coming 
could  dispel  the  mystery.  If  so,  and  if  he  had  interest  in 
keeping  up  the  weird  story,  he  had  done  well  now  to  lose 
his  charge  for  the  time  being.  Wild  and  improbable  as 
such  a  plot  seemed,  it  was  not  more  extraordinary  than  the 
fact  that  this  intensely  practical  young  man  had  sought  the 
other  and  protected  him  so  long. 

"Your  friend  is  in  the  habit  of  wandering,  is  he  not?" 
asked  Trenholme,  guardedly. 


262 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  II 


'■|i 


"Can't  say  that  he  is  since  he  came  here,  Princ^'()al. 
He's  just  like  a  child,  coming  in  when  it's  dark.  I've 
never  " — he  spoke  with  zeal — "  I've  never  known  that  good 
old  gentleman  out  as  late  as  this,  and  it's  stormy." 

"Did  you  come  here  under  the  idea  that  I  knew  any- 
thing about  him  ?  " 

"Well,  no,  I  can't  say  that  I  did;  but  I  reckoned  you 
knew  your  Bible  pretty  well,  and  that  you  were  the  nearest 
neighbour  of  mine  that  did."  There  was  an  attempt  at 
nervous  pleasantry  in  this,  perhaps  to  hide  real  earnest- 
ness. 

Trenholme  frowned.     "I  don't  understand  you." 

"  Well,  'twould  be  strange  if  you  did,  come  to  think  of 
it;  but  I'm  mighty  uneasy  about  that  old  man,  and  I've 
come  to  ask  you  what  the  Bible  really  does  say  about  the 
Lord's  coming.  Whether  he's  crazed  or  not,  that  old  man 
believes  that  He's  coming  to- night.  He's  been  telling  the 
folks  all  day  that  they  ought  to  go  out  with  joy  to  meet 
Him.  I  never  thought  of  him  budging  from  the  house 
till  some  manifestation  occurred,  which  I  thought  wouldnH 
occur,  but  when  i  found  just  noAV  he  was  gone,  it  struck  me 
all  of  a  heap  that  he  was  gone  out  vrith  that  idea.  I  do 
assure  you" — he  spoke  earnestly — "that's  what  he's  after 
at  this  very  time.  He's  gone  out  to  meet  Him,  and  I  came 
to  ask  y  -well — what  sort  of  a  place  he'd  be  likely  to 
choose.  He  knows  his  Bible  right  off,  that  old  gentleman 
does;  he's  got  his  notions  out  of  it,  whether  they're  right 
or  wrong." 

Trenholme  stared  at  him.  It  was  some  time  before  the 
young  man's  ideas  made  their  way  into  his  mind.  Then 
he  wondered  if  his  apparent  earnestness  could  possibly  be 
real. 

"Your  application  is  an  extraordinary  one,"  he  said 
stiffly. 

Harkness  was  too  sensitive  not  to  perceive  the  direction 
the  doubt  nad  taken.  "  It  may  be  extraordinary,  but  I  do 
assure  you  it's  genuine." 


CHAP.  XIX]  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


263 


an 


id 


)n 
lo 


As  he  grew  to  b&iieve  in  the  youth's  sincerity,  Tren- 
hohne  thought  he  perceived  that,  although  he  had  asked 
what  would  be  the  probable  direction  of  the  enthusiast's 
wanderings,  the  dentist  was  really  stricken  with  doubt  as 
to  whether  the  prediction  might  not  possibly  be  correct, 
and  longed  chiefly  to  know  Trenholme's  mind  on  that 
important  matter. 

"This  crazy  fellow  is  astray  in  his  interpretation  of 
Scripture,"  he  said,  "if  he  believes  that  it  teaches  that  the 
Second  Advent  is  now  imminent;  and  his  fixing  upon  to- 
night is,  of  course,  quite  arbitrary.  God  works  by  growth 
and  development,  not  by  violent  miracle.  If  you  study  the 
account  of  our  Lord's  first  coming,  you  see  that,  not  only 
was  there  long  preparation,  but  that  the  great  miracle  was 
hidde'~  in  the  beautiful  disguise  of  natural  processes.  We 
must  interpret  all  special  parts  of  the  inspired  Word  by 
that  whicxi  we  learn  of  its  Author  in  the  whole  of  His  rev- 
elation, otherwise  we  should  not  deal  as  reverently  with  it 
as  we  deal  with  the  stray  words  of  any  human  author." 

The  young  man,  if  he  did  not  understand,  was  certainly 
comforted  by  this  official  opinion. 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  you  look  upon  it  in  that  light,"  he  said 
aj^provingly,  "  for,  to  tell  the  truth,  if  I  thought  the  mil- 
lennium was  coming  to-night  I'd  be  real  scared,  although 
I've  lived  better  than  most  young  men  of  my  age  do;  but, 
some  way,  the  millennium  isn't  the  sort  of  thing  I  seem  to 
hanker  after  very  much.  I  suppose,  though,  people  as 
good  as  you  would  like  nothing  so  well  as  tc  see  it  begin  at 
once." 

Trenholme  looked  down  at  the  sheet  of  paper  before 
him,  and  absently  made  marks  upon  it  with  his  pen.  He 
was  thinking  of  the  spiritual  condition  of  a  soul  which  had 
no  ardent  desire  for  the  adven^^  o '  its  Lord,  but  it  was  not 
of  the  young  man  he  was  thinking. 

"Of  course,"  the  latter  continued,  "I  didn't  suppose  my- 
self there  was  anything  in  it — at  least" — candidly — "I 
didn't  in  the  day-time;  bit  when  I  found  he'd  gone  out  in 


II 


i  i 


1 


m 


264 


IVBAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[boor  ii 


the  dark,  and  thought  of  all  the  times  I'd  heard  him  pray- 
ing  "he   broke  off.     "He's   real   good.     I'm  a  better 

fellow  for  having  lived  with  him  so  long,  but  I  wish  to 
goodness  I'd  never  caught  him." 

The  word  "caught,"  so  expressive  of  the  American's  re- 
lation to  the  wanderer,  roused  Trenholme's  attention,  and 
he  asked  now  with  interest,  "  May  I  inquire  why  you  did 
take  possession  of  him  and  bring  him  here?" 

"Well,  as  to  that,  I  don't  know  that  I'd  like  to  tell," 
said  the  young  man,  frankly.  "Since  I've  lived  with  him 
I've  seen  my  reasons  to  be  none  of  the  best."  He  fidgeted 
now,  rising,  cap  in  hand.  "  I  ought  to  go  and  look  after 
him,"  he  said,  "if  I  only  knew  where  to  go." 

It  struck  Trenholme  that  Harkness  had  an  idea  where  to 
go,  and  that  his  questioning  was  really  a  prelude  to  its 
announcement.     "Where  do  you  think  he  has  gone?" 

"  Well,  if  you  ask  me  what  I  think,  Principal — but, 
mind,  "^  haven't  a  word  of  proof  of  it — I  think  he's  gone  up 
the  mountain,  and  that  he's  not  gone  there  alone." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  I  mean  that  I  think  drunken  Job's  wife,  and  old  Mc- 
Nider,  and  some  more  of  the  Second  Advent  folks,  will  go 
with  him,  expecting  to  be  caught  up." 

"Impossible!"  cried  Trenholme,  vehemently.  Then 
more  soberly,  "Even  if  they  had  such  wild  intentions, 
the  weather  would,  of  course,  put  a  stop  to  it." 

Harkness  did  not  look  convinced.  "  Job's  threatened  to 
beat  his  wife  to  death  if  she  goes,  and  it's  my  belief  she'll 
go." 

He  twirled  his  hat  as  he  spoke.  He  was,  in  fact,  trying 
to  get  the  responsibility  of  his  suspicions  lightened  by 
sharing  them  with  Trenholme  at  this  eleventh  hour,  but 
his  hearer  was  not  so  quickly  roused. 

"If  you  believe  that,"  he  said  coolly,  "you  ought  to  give 
information  to  the  police." 

"The  police  know  all  that  I  know.  They've  heard  the 
people  preaching  and  singing  in  the  streets.     I  can't  make 


V\ 


— -'-^— — 


~v 


CHAP.  Xlx]  tVHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


265 


them  believe  the  story  if  they  don't.     They'd  not  go  with 
me  one  step  on  a  night  like  this — not  one  step." 

There  was  a  short  silence.  Trenholme  was  weighing 
probabilities.  On  the  whole,  he  thought  the  police  were 
in  the  right  of  it,  and  that  this  young  man  was  probably 
carried  away  by  a  certain  liking  for  novel  excitement. 

"In  any  case,"  he  said  aloud,  "I  don't  see  what  I  can  do 
in  the  matter." 

Harkness  turned  to  leave  as  abruptly  as  he  had  come  in. 
"  If  you  don't,  I  see  what  I  can  do.  I'm  going  along  there 
to  see  if  I  can  find  them." 

"  As  you  are  in  a  way  responsible  for  the  old  man,  per- 
haps that  is  your  duty,"  replied  Trenholme,  secretly  think- 
ing that  on  such  roads  and  under  such  skies  the  volatile 
youth  would  not  go  very  far. 

A  blast  of  wind  entered  the  house  door  as  Harkness  went 
out  of  it,  scattering  Trenholme's  papers,  causing  his  study 
lamp  to  flare  up  suddenly,  and  almost  extinguishing  it. 

Trenholme  went  on  with  his  writing,  and  now  a  curious 
thing  happened.  About  nine  o'clock  he  again  heard  steps 
upon  his  path,  and  the  bell  rang.  Thinking  it  a  visitor, 
he  stepped  to  the  door  himself,  as  he  often  did.  There  was 
no  one  there  but  a  small  boy,  bearing  a  large  box  on  his 
shoulders.  He  asked  for  Mrs.  Martha.  "  Have  you  got  a 
parcel  for  her?  "  said  Trenholme,  thinking  his  housekeeper 
had  probably  retired,  as  she  did  not  come  to  the  door.  The 
boy  signified  that  he  had,  and  made  his  way  into  the  light 
of  the  study  door.  Trenholme  saw  now,  by  the  label  on 
the  box,  that  he  had  come  from  the  largest  millinery  estab- 
lishment the  place  could  boast.  It  rather  surprised  him 
that  the  lean  old  woman  should  have  been  purchasing  new 
apparel  there,  but  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  tell 
the  boy  to  put  out  the  contents  of  the  box  and  be  gone. 
Accordingly,  upon  a  large  chair  the  boy  laid  a  white  gown 
of  delicate  material,  and  went  away. 

Trenholme  stood  contemplating  the  gown;  he  even 
touched  it  lightly  with  his  hand,  so  surprised  he  was.     He 


I 


^r 


266 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  II 


m 


soon  concluded  there  was  some  mistake,  and  afterwards, 
when  he  heard  the  housekeeper  enter  the  kitclien  from  the 
garden  door,  he  was  interested  enough  to  get  up  with 
alacrity  and  call  to  her.  "  A  gown  has  come  for  you,  Mrs. 
Martha,"  he  cried.  Now,  he  thought,  the  mistake  would 
be  proved;  but  she  only  came  in  soberly,  and  took  up  the 
gown  as  if  it  was  an  expected  thing.  He  bade  her  good- 
night. "Good-night,"  said  she,  looking  at  him.  There 
was  a  red  spot  on  each  of  her  thin,  withered  cheeks.  He 
heard  her  footstep  mounting  her  bedroom  staircase,  but  no 
clue  to  the  mystery  of  her  purchase  offered  itself  to  miti- 
gate his  surprise.  Had  she  not  been  his  housekeeper  now 
for  six  years,  and  during  that  time  not  so  much  as  a  trace 
of  any  vagary  of  mind  had  he  observed  in  her. 

About  an  hour  afterwards,  when  he  had  gone  into  the  next 
room  to  look  for  some  papers,  he  heard  quiet  sounds  going 
on  in  the  kitchen,  which  was  just  at  the  rear  end  of  the 
small  hall  on  which  the  room  doors  opened.  A  moment 
more  and  he  surmised  that  his  housekeeper  must  have  again 
descended  for  something.  "Are  you  there,  Mrs.  Martha?" 
he  called.  There  was  no  answer  in  words,  but  hearing  the 
kitchen  door  open,  he  looked  into  the  lobby,  and  there  a 
strange  vision  flashed  on  his  sight.  His  end  of  the  lobby 
was  dark,  but  in  the  kitchen  doorway,  by  the  light  of  the 
candles  she  held,  he  saw  his  elderly  housekeeper  arrayed  in 
the  pure  white  gown. 

He  paused  in  sheer  astonishment,  looking  at  her,  and  he 
observed  she  trembled — trembled  all  over  with  the  meek 
courage  it  cost  her  to  thus  exhibit  herself;  for  she  appeared 
to  have  opened  the  door  for  no  other  purpose  than  to  let 
him  see  her.  She  said  nothing,  and  he — most  men  are 
cowards  with  regard  to  women — he  had  a  vague  sense  that 
it  was  his  duty  to  ask  her  why  she  wore  that  dress,  but  he 
did  not  do  it.  He  had  no  reason  to  suppose  her  mad;  she 
had  a  perfect  right  to  array  herself  in  full  dress  at  night  if 
she  chose;  she  was  a  great  deal  old^r  than  he,  a  woman 
worthy  of  all  respect.    This  was  the  tenor  of  his  thought — 


\ 


CHAP.  XX] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


267 


of  his  self-excusing,  it  might  be.  He  bade  lier  good-night 
again,  somewhat  timidly.  Surely,  he  thought,  it  was  her 
place  to  make  remark,  if  remark  were  needful;  but  she 
stood  there  silent  till  he  had  gone  back  into  the  room. 
Then  she  shut  the  kitchen  door. 

In  a  little  while,  however,  as  stillness  reigned  in  the 
house,  some  presentiment  of  evil  made  him  think  it  would 
be  as  well  to  go  and  see  if  Mrs.  Martha  had  finished  trying 
on  her  finery  and  gone  to  bed  as  usual.  He  found  the 
kitchen  dark  and  empty.  He  went  to  the  foot  of  her 
stairs.  There  was  no  chink  of  light  showing  from  her 
room.  The  stillness  of  the  place  entered  into  his  mind  as 
the  thin  edge  of  a  wedge  of  alarm.  "Mrs.  Martha!"  he 
called  in  sonorous  voice.  "Mrs.  Martha!"  But  no  one 
answered.  He  opened  the  back  door,  and  swept  the  dark 
garden  with  the  light  of  his  lamp,  but  she  was  not  there. 
Lamp  in  hand,  he  went  upstairs,  and  passed  rapidly 
through  the  different  rooms.  As  he  entered  the  less  fre- 
q'lented  ones,  he  began  to  fear  almost  as  much  to  see  the 
gaily-attired  figure  as  he  would  have  done  to  see  a  ghost. 
He  did  not  know  why  this  feel'ng  crept  over  him,  but, 
whether  he  feared  or  hoped  to  see  her,  he  did  not.  The 
house  was  empty,  save  for  himself.  The  night  blast  beat 
upon  it.  The  darkness  outside  was  rife  with  storm,  but 
into  it  the  old  woman  must  have  gone  in  her  festal  array. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


Trenholme  went  out  on  the  verandah.  At  first,  in  the 
night,  he  saw  nothing  but  the  shadowy  forms  of  the  college 
building  and  of  the  trees  upon  the  road.  It  was  not  rain- 
ing at  the  moment,  but  the  wind  made  it  hard  to  catch  any 
sound  continuously.  He  thought  he  heard  talking  of 
more  than  one  voice,  he  could  not  tell  where.  Then  he 
heard  wheels  begin  to  move  on  the  road.     Presently  he 


til 


'f 


i 


I 


M 


;     i 

i 

il  m 

ll  sKl 

'■  if  Hk 

^-^^^^Hl 

'IhHI 

I  tKB& 

w  HKfl 

■    Jt  i^R|j 

II 

mm 

1 

.. 

li'li.' 

•■  1 

('  1 

.» 

■.' 

i    )      ■  * 

iiffj 

1 

1 

268  Pf7/^r  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  ii 

saw  something  passing  the  trees — some  vehicle,  and  it  was 
going  at  a  good  pace  out  from  the  village.  Shod  though  he 
was  only  in  slippers,  he  shut  his  door  behind  him,  and  ran 
across  the  college  grounds  to  the  road ;  but  the  vehicle  was 
already  out  of  sight,  and  on  the  soft  mud  he  could  hear  no 
further  sound. 

Trenholme  stood  hardly  knowing  what  to  think.  He 
wore  no  hat;  the  damp,  cool  air  was  grateful  to  his  head, 
but  he  gave  no  thought  to  it.  Just  then,  from  the  other 
way  of  the  road,  he  heard  a  light,  elastic  step  and  saw  a 
figure  that,  even  in  the  darkness,  he  could  not  fail  to  know. 

"  Sophia!  "     There  was  fear  in  his  voice. 

"Have  you  seen  Winifred?"  she  cried. 

"  Winifred?    No, "  he  called  back. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here?  "  she  asked,  breathless.  She 
never  noticed  that  he  had  called  her  by  name.  The  abrupt- 
ness of  her  own  question  was  evidently  atoned  for  by  some 
necessity  the  nature  of  which  he  had  not  yet  entirely 
grasped.  Yet  a  knowledge,  gleaned  too  late  from  all  the 
occurrences  of  the  evening,  leaped  up  within  him  to  antici- 
pate her  tidings. 

"Winifred  has  gone  out  since  dark.  Whether  she  is 
alone  or  not  I  don't  know,  but  she  has  gone  to  the  moun- 
tain. She  means  to  climb  it  to-night  because  they  have 
told  her  that — that " 

His  lady-love  stopped.  Voice  and  language  seemed 
alike  to  fail  her  when  she  essayed  to  tell  him,  and  he,  awed 
at  the  thought  of  hearing  such  sacred  words  from  her  lips, 
awed  to  think  that  the  sword  of  this  fanaticism  had  come 
so  near  as  to  strike  the  pure  young  girl  who  was  so  dear  to 
them  both,  took  her  pause  as  if  it  had  told  him  everything. 

"  How  do  you  know?  "   His  v/ords  were  brief  and  stern. 

She  was  walking  on,  he  thought  merely  from  excitement. 
As  he  kept  up  with  her  he  perceived,  more  by  quickness 
of  sympathy  than  by  any  sign,  that,  in  her  effort  to  speak, 
she  had  begun  to  weep.  She  walked  erect,  giving  no  heed 
to  her  own  tears  nor  lifting  a  hand  to  wipe  them,  only  at 


i-tt;:^! 


CHAP.  XX] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


269 


first  her  throat  refused  to  articulate  a  reply,  and  when  she 
spoke  it  was  quickly,  a  word  or  two^at  a  time,  as  though 
she  feared  her  voice  would  be  traitor  to  her. 

"She  left  a  paper  for  me."  And  then  she  added,  "She 
wrote  on  it — what  she  was  afraid  to  say — dear  child!  " 

He  was  silent  a  moment,  listening  with  bowed  head  lest 
she  should  tell  more.  He  thought  he  saw  her  now  dash  the 
tears  from  her  face.  She  was  walking  fast,  and  he  felt 
that  she  must  not  go  further,  also  that  he  had  no  time  to 
lose;  so  he  told  her  hastily  that  he  thought  his  housekeeper 
had  gone  also  to  the  mountain,  and  why  he  thought  so. 
He  said  that  he  hoped  and  believed  Winifred  would  be  with 
her,  and  that  it  was  not  many  minutes  since  they  had  driven 
away.  He  would  go  at  once,  hoping  to  overtake  them  on 
the  difficult  ascent,  and  Miss  Rexford,  he  said,  must  go 
home  and  send  her  father  and  brother  to  aid  him  in  his 
search. 

She  never  stopped  in  her  steady  walk.  "  You  know  they 
are  not  at  home." 

He  was  shocked  to  remember  it.  "  Never  mind ! "  he 
cried,  "I  will  go  with  your  authority.  I  will  bring  her 
back." 

Still  she  did  not  waver  in  her  walk.  She  spoke  thickly 
out  of  her  tears.  "  You  may  go  to  find  this  woman  who 
has  worked  for  you  so  long;  I  will  go  for  Winifred." 

"You  must  not  come,"  he  said  almost  harshly.  "It  is 
far  too  late;  it  is  far  too  wet." 

He  stopped  to  make  her  stop,  but  she  only  A^ent  on,  get- 
ting much  in  front.  Then  he  ran  up  to  her,  laid  his  hand 
on  her  arm,  and  implored  her  not  to  go. 

There  was  nothing  in  his  words  or  action  that  was  pre- 
cisely loverlike,  nor  did  such  likeness  occur  to  her;  but  in 
the  restraint  he  put  upon  the  lover  in  him,  his  manner 
appeared  to  assume  the  confidence  and  ease  of  a  perfect 
friendship,  and  she,  scarce  noting  much  how  he  spoke  or 
acted,  still  felt  that  this  advance  of  his  gave  her  a  new 
liberty  to  tell  him  that  she  scorned  his  friendship,  for  she 


il 


270 


IVNAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[hook  II 


ll^ii 


!     t-^' 


had  something  of  that  sort  seething  in  her  mind  concern- 
ing him.  As  to  his  request  just  then,  she  merely  said  she 
would  go  on. 

He  was  very  urgent.  "Then  7  will  not  go,"  he  said, 
stopping  again.  "You  can't  go  without  me,  and  if  my 
going  involves  your  going,  it  is  better  not  to  go."  He  did 
not  mean  what  he  said,  but  he  hoped  to  move  her. 

"You  can  go  or  stay  as  you  think  right,"  she  said.  "I 
am  going  to  get  Winifred,  poor  lamb.  I  am  not  in  the 
least  afraid  to  go  alone.     I  have  got  a  pistol  in  my  belt." 

So  he  went  with  her.  They  both  walked  fast.  The  road 
was  wide  and  muddy,  and  the  night  was  very  dark. 

Trenholme  noticed  now  for  the  first  time  that  he  walked 
in  slippers ;  he  would  as  soon  have  thought  of  turning  back 
on  this  account  as  he  would  have  thought  of  stopping  if 
thorns  and  briars  had  beset  his  path.  He  felt  almost  as  if 
it  were  a  dream  that  he  was  walking  thus,  serving  the 
woman  he  loved ;  but  even  as  he  brooded  on  the  dreamlike 
strangeness  of  it,  his  mind  was  doing  its  practical  work. 
If  Winifred  and  Mrs.  Martha  were  in  the  vehicle  he  had 
seen,  what  time  they  would  gain  while  driving  on  the  road 
they  would  be  apt  to  lose  by  their  feebleness  on  the  moun- 
tain path,  which  he  and  Sophia  could  ascend  so  much  more 
lightly.  Wherever  their  goal,  and  whatever  their  purpose, 
he  was  sanguine  that  he  would  find  and  stop  them  before 
they  joined  the  main  party.  He  communicated  the  grounds 
of  this  hope  to  his  companion.  His  heart  was  sore  for  his 
lady's  tears.  He  had  never  before  seen  her  weep.  They 
had  passed  the  cemetery,  and  went  forward  now  into  the 
lonelier  part  of  the  road.  Then  Trenholme  thought  of  the 
warning  Harkness  had  given  him  about  the  drunkard's 
violence.  The  recollection  made  him  hasten  on,  forgetting 
that  his  speed  was  almost  too  great  for  a  woman. 

In  the  stir  of  events  we  seldom  realise  to  the  full  the 
facts  with  which  we  are  dealing,  certainly  never  perceive 
at  first  theii'  full  import.  Trenholme,  however,  after 
some  minutes  of  tramping  and  thinking,  felt  that  he  had 


\  • 


CHAP.  XX]  WHAT  NECESS/TV  KN-QWS 


271 


's 


^S 


re 
Ld 


reason  for  righteous  indignation,  and  became  wroth.  lie 
gave  vent  to  strictures  upon  superficiality  of  character, 
modern  love  of  excitement,  and  that  silly  egotism  that, 
causing  people  to  throw  off  rightful  authority,  leaves  them 
an  easy  prey  to  false  teachers.  He  was  not  angry  with 
Winifred — he  excepted  her;  but  against  those  who  were 
leading  her  astray  his  words  were  harsh,  and  they  would 
have  flowed  more  freely  had  he  not  found  language  inade- 
quate to  express  his  growing  perception  of  their  folly. 

When  he  had  talked  thus  for  some  time  Sophia  an- 
swered, and  he  knew  instantly,  from  the  tone  of  her  voice, 
that  her  tears  had  dried  themselves. 

"Are  you  and  I  able  to  understand  the  condition  of 
heart  that  is  not  only  resigned,  but  eager  to  meet  Him 
Whom  they  hope  to  meet — able  so  fully  to  understand  that 
we  can  judge  its  worth?" 

He  knew  her  face  so  well  that  he  seemed  to  see  the  hint 
of  sarcasm  come  in  the  arching  of  her  handsome  eye- 
brows as  she  spoke. 

"I  fear  they  realise  their  hope  but  little,"  he  replied. 
"  The  excitement  of  some  hysterical  outbreak  is  what  they 
seek." 

"It  seems  to  me  that  is  an  ungenerous  and  superficial 
view,  especially  as  we  have  never  seen  the  same  people 
courting  hysterics  before, "  she  said ;  but  she  did  not  speak 
as  if  she  cared  much  which  view  he  took. 

Her  lack  of  interest  in  his  opinion,  quite  as  much  as  her 
frank  reproof,  offended  him.  They  walked  in  silence  for 
some  minutes.  Thunder,  which  had  been  rumbling  in  the 
distance,  came  nearer  and  every  now  and  then  a  flash  from 
an  approaching  storm  lit  up  the  dark  land  with  a  pale, 
vivid  light. 

"Even  setting  their  motives  at  the  highest  estimate," 
he  said,  "I  do  not  know  that  you,  or  even  I,  Miss  Kex- 
ford,  need  hold  ourselves  incapable  of  entering  into  them." 
This  was  not  exactly  what  he  would  have  felt  if  left  to 
himLjlf,  but  it  was  what  her  upbraiding  wrung  from  him. 


272  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  ii 

He  continued :  "  Even  if  we  had  the  sure  expectation  for 
to-night  tliat  they  profess  to  have,  I  am  of  opinion  that  we 
should  express  our  devotion  better  by  patient  adherence  to 
our  ordinary  duties,  by  doing  all  we  could  for  the  world  up 
to  the  moment  of  His  appearing." 

"  Our  ordinary  duties !  "  she  cried ;  ''  they  are  always  with 
usl  I  dare  say  you  and  I  might  think  that  the  fervour 
of  this  night's  work  had  better  have  been  converted  into 
good  works  and  given  to  the  poor;  but  our  opinion  is  not 
specially  likely  to  be  the  true  one.  What  do  we  know? 
Walking  here  in  the  dark,  we  can't  even  see  our  way  along 
this  road." 

It  was  an  apt  illustration,  for  their  eyes  were  becoming 
so  dazzled  by  the  occasional  lightning  that  they  could 
make  no  use  of  its  brief  flash,  or  of  the  faint  light  of  night 
that  was  mingled  in  the  darkness  of  the  intervals. 

Although  he  smarted  under  the  slight  she  put  upon  him, 
he  was  weary  of  opposing  her,  because  he  loved  her.  "  I 
am  sorry  that  nothing  I  say  meets  with  your  approval,"  he 
said  sadly. 

It  was  lack  of  tact  that  made  him  use  the  personal  tone 
when  he  and  she  had  so  far  to  travel  perforce  together,  and 
she,  being  excited  and  much  perturbed  in  spirit,  had  not 
the  grace  to  answer  wisely. 

"  Happily  it  matters  little  whether  what  you  say  pleases 
me  or  not." 

She  meant  in  earnestness  to  depreciate  herself,  and  to 
exalt  that  higher  tribunal  before  which  all  opinions  are 
arraigned;  still,  there  was  in  the  answer  a  tinge  of  spite, 
telling  him  by  the  way  that  it  did  not  distress  her  to  differ 
with  him.  It  was  not  wonderful  that  Trenholme,  self- 
conscious  with  the  lo7e  she  did  not  guess  at,  took  the  words 
only  as  a  challenge  to  his  admiration. 

"Indeed  you  wrong  me.  It  was  long  ago  I  proved  the 
value  I  put  upon  your  advice  by  acting  upon  it  in  the  most 
important  decision  of  my  life." 

She  had  so  long  tacitly  understood  what  her  influence 


CHAP.  XX] 


WHAT  NECESS/1'y  AWOll'S 


273 


over  him  at  tluit  time  luid  boon  that  she  could  not  now  be 
inu(!h  affected  by  the  avowal. 

"Indeed,  if  3^011  recklessly  mistook  th(^  advice  of  a  vain 
child  for  wisdom,  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  Providence  has 
shai)ed  your  ends  for  you." 

Ho  did  not  understand  her  mood;  he  only  thought  of 
protesting  his  long  loyalty  to  her.  "It  is  true,"  said  he, 
"  that  Trovidencie  has  done  more  for  me  than  I  have  done 
for  myself;  but  I  have  always  been  glad  to  attribute  my 
coming  here  to  your  beneficent  influence." 

Her  heart  was  like  flint  to  him  at  that  moment,  and  in 
his  clumsiness  he  struck  sparks  from  it. 

"  Yet  when  I  remember  how  you  tried  to  explain  to  me 
then  that  the  poor  parish  in  which  you  were  working  might 
be  offering  the  nobler  life-work  for  you,  I  think  that  you 
were  wiser  than  I.  In  their  serious  moments  people  can 
judge  best  for  themselves,  Mr.  Trenholme." 

He  had  noticed  that,  in  the  rare  times  she  addressed  him 
by  name,  she  never  used  his  big-sounding  title  of  Principal. 
This  little  habit  of  hers,  differently  read  before,  seemed 
now  like  a  clue  to  guide  him  to  the  meaning  of  her  last 
remark,  partly  wrapped  as  it  was  in  her  politeness.  He 
was  no  dullard;  once  on  the  track  of  her  thought,  he  soon 
came  up  with  her.  In  surprise  he  faced  her  insinuation 
squarely. 

"  You  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  think  I  have  not  done  well." 

Half  startled,  she  could  think  of  no  answer  but  the 
silence  that  gives  consent. 

"Is  it  for  myself  or  others  I  have  done  ill?"  he  asked. 

"  The  world  here  speaks  loudly  of  your  exertions  on  its 
behalf;  I  have  never  doubted  the  truth  of  its  report." 

"  Then  you  consider  that  I  myself  am  not  what  you  would 
wish?"  There  was  neither  anger  nor  graciousness  in  his 
tone.  His  mind,  arrested,  merely  sought  to  know  further, 
and  feeling  had  not  yet  arisen. 

"  You  alarm  me,"  she  said  coldly.  "I  had  no  thought  of 
bringing  these  questions  upon  myself." 


s*-. 


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274  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  ii 

But  it  was  of  moment  to  him  to  know  her  mind. 

"I  spoke  inadvisedly,"  she  added. 

"Yet  you  spoke  as  you  thouglit?"  he  asked. 

Fast  as  they  were  walking,  she  could  not  but  notice  that 
they  were  in  the  pine  grove  now,  close  by  the  river.  Here 
the  gale  was  loud,  reminding  her  afresh  of  the  loneliness  of 
the  place,  and,  as  she  felt  the  force  of  his  question  pressing 
upon  her,  all  her  energies  rushed  in  anger  to  her  self- 
defence. 

"Yes,  I  said  what  I  thought;  but  I  ask  your  pardon  for 
my  truthfulness.     Question  me  no  further." 

His  stronger  will  was  also  roused.  In  bitterness  of 
spirit  he  told  her  that  he  had  a  right  to  know  her  full  mean- 
ing. He  plied  her  with  questions.  When  in  steady  tramp 
they  came  out  on  the  open  stretch  of  road  between  the  pines 
and  the  mountain,  over  the  noise  of  the  swollen  river  he 
heard  what  she  thought  of  him. 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

That  afternoon  Alec  Trenholme  had  essayed  to  bring  his 
friend  John  Bates  to  Chellaston.  Bates  was  in  a  very 
feeble  state,  bowed  with  asthma,  and  exhausted  by  a  cough 
that  seemed  to  be  sapping  his  life.  Afraid  to  keep  him 
longer  in  the  lodging  they  had  taken  in  Quebec,  and  in  the 
stifling  summer  heat  that  was  upon  the  narrow  streets  of 
that  city,  but  uncertain  as  to  what  length  of  journey  he 
would  be  able  to  go,  Alec  started  without  sending  further 
notice. 

As  the  hours  of  travel  wore  on,  Bates's  dogged  pluck  and 
perseverance  had  to  give  way  to  his  bodily  weakness,  but 
they  had  reached  a  station  quite  near  Chellaston  before  he 
allowed  himself  to  be  taken  out  of  the  train  and  housed  for 
the  night  in  a  railway  inn.  In  his  nervous  state  the  ordeal 
of  meeting  fresh  friends  seemed  as  great,  indeed,  as  that 


CHAP,  xxr]  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


27S 


involved  in  the  remaining  journey.  So  it  oame  to  pass  that 
at  dusk  on  that  same  evening,  Alec  Trenholme,  having  put 
his  friend  to  bed,  joined  the  loungers  on  the  railway  plat- 
form in  front  of  the  inn,  and  watched  lightning  vibrate 
above  the  horizon,  and  saw  its  sheet-like  flames  light  up  the 
contour  of  Chellaston  Mountain.  He  did  not  know  what 
hill  it  was ;  he  did  not  know  precisely  where  he  was  in  rela- 
tion to  his  brother's  home ;  but  he  soon  overheard  the  name 
of  the  hill  from  two  men  who  were  talking  about  it  and 
about  the  weather. 

"How  far  to  Chellaston?  "  asked  Alec. 

They  told  him  that  it  was  only  nine  miles  by  road,  but 
the  railway  we"  c  round  by  a  junction. 

Alec  began  to  consider  the  idea  of  walking  over,  now  that 
he  had  disposed  of  Bates  for  the  night. 

"Is  the  storm  coming  this  way?"  he  said. 

The  man  who  had  first  answered  him  pointed  to  another. 
"This  gentleman,"  he  said,  "h  s  just  come  from  Chellas- 
ton." 

As  the  remark  did  not  seem  to  be  an  answer  to  his  ques- 
tion about  the  weather.  Alec  waited  to  hear  its  application. 
It  followed. 

The  first  man  drew  a  little  nearer.  "He's  beeu  telling 
us  that  the  Adventists — that  means  folks  that  are  always 
expecting  the  end  of  the  world — all  about  Chellaston  believe 
the  end's  coming  to-night." 

Alec  made  an  exclamation.  It  was  a  little  like  hearing 
that  some  one  sees  a  ghost  at  your  elbow.  The  idea  of 
proximity  is  unpleasant,  even  to  the  incredulous.  "Why 
to-night?  "  he  asked. 

"Well,  I'll  say  this  much  of  the  notion's  come  true,"  said 
the  native  of  Chellaston  hastily — "  it's  awful  queer  weather 
— not  that  I  believe  it  myself, "  he  added. 

"  Has  the  weather  been  so  remarkable  as  to  make  them 
think  that?  "  asked  Alec. 

"  'Tain't  the  weather  viade  them  think  it.  He  only  said 
the  weather  weren't  unlike  as  if  it  were  coming  true."    As 


276  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOIVS  [book  ii 

the  first  man  said  this,  he  laughed,  to  explain  that  he  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  tale  or  its  credence,  but  the  very 
laugh  betrayed  more  of  a  tendency  to  dislike  the  idea  than 
perfect  indifference  to  it  would  have  warranted. 

In  defiance  of  this  laugh  the  Chellaston  man  made  further 
explanation.  He  said  the  religious  folks  said  it  was  clearly 
written  in  the  Book  of  Daniel  (he  pronounced  it  Dannel) ; 
if  you  made  the  days  it  talks  of  years,  and  the  weeks  seven 
years,  the  end  must  come  about  this  time.  At  first  folks 
had  calculated  it  would  be  1843,  but  since  then  they  had 
found  they  were  thirty  years  out  somehow. 

"That  would  make  it  this  year,"  agreed  the  first  man. 
Some  others  that  had  gathered  round  laughed  in  chorus. 
They  ven<;ed  some  bad  language  to ;  but  the  Chellaston  man, 
excited  with  his  tale,  went  on. 

"All  the  Advent  folks  believe  that.  They  believe  all  the 
good  folks  will  be  caught  up  in  the  air;  and  after  that  tiiey're 
to  come  back,  and  the  world  will  be  just  like  the  Garden  of 
Eden  for  a  thousand  years." 

He  was  casting  pearls  before  swine,  for  some  of  his 
hearers  chanted  gibes.  "Is  tliat  so?"  they  sang,  to  the 
notes  of  a  response  in  Church  music. 

Night  had  closed  in  black  about  them.  All  on  the  plat- 
form had  come  together  in  close  group.  The  wind-blown 
light  of  the  station  lamp  was  on  their  faces.  In  the  dis- 
tance the  smouldering  storm  rumbled  and  flashed. 

"All  religious  folks  believe  that,"  continued  the  speaker, 
a  little  scornfully,  "and  the  Advents  think  it'll  be  now;  but 
that  old  Cameron  we've  had  in  Chellaston  for  a  year,  he 
tells  them  it'll  be  to-night." 

Alec  Trenholme  had  by  this  time  received  his  brother's 
letters.  "  A  year !  "  interrupted  he  almost  fiercely.  "  Didn't 
he  come  in  January?" 

The  narrator  drew  in  the  horns  of  his  exaggeration.  "  D'ye 
know  all  about  him,  for  there's  no  use  telling  if  you  do?" 

"  I  only  thought  you  might  be  talking  about  an  old  man 
I  heard  went  there  then." 


CHAP.  XXI]  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


277 


"  He  a'most  died,  or  did  really,  somewhere  below  Quebec ; 
and  then  he  got  up  and  preached  and  prayed,  and  his  folks 
wouldn't  keep  him,  so  he  wandered  everywhere,  and  a  kind 
young  man  we  have  at  our  place  took  him  in  and  keeps  him. 
When  he  was  in  the  other  world  he  heard  the  Judgment 
would  happen  to-night.  Would  that  be  the  same  man  you 
know?" 

"It  will  be  the  same  man." 

"Did  you  know  his  people?"  asked  the  other  curiously. 

But  Alec  had  no  thought  of  being  questioned.  He  brouglit 
the  speaker  back  to  his  place  as  historian,  and  he,  nothing 
loth,  told  of  the  intended  meeting  on  the  mountain,  and  of 
the  white  ascension  robes,  in  his  ignorant,  blatant  fashion, 
laying  bare  the  whole  pathetic  absurdity  of  it. 

Two  ribald  listeners,  who  had  evidently  been  in  some 
choir,  paced  arm  in  arm,  singing  the  responses  to  the  Litany 
in  melodramatic  fashion,  except  when  their  voices  were 
choked  with  loud  laughter  at  their  own  wit. 

Pushed  by  the  disagreeableness  of  these  surroundings, 
and  by  keen  interest  in  the  old  man  who  had  once  visited 
him.  Alec  decided  on  the  walk.  The  mountain  was  nearer 
than  the  village;  he  hoped  to  reach  it  in  time.  He  was 
told  to  keep  on  the  same  road  till  he  came  to  the  river,  to 
follow  its  bank  for  about  a  mile,  and  when  he  saw  the 
buildings  of  a  farm  just  under  the  hill,  to  turn  up  a  lane 
which  would  lead  him  by  the  house  to  the  principal  ascent. 
He  walked  out  into  the  night. 

At  first  he  was  full  of  thoughts,  but  after  walking  a  while, 
fatigue  and  monotony  made  him  dull.  His  intelligence 
seemed  to  dwell  now  in  his  muscles  rather  than  in  his  brain. 
His  feet  told  him  on  what  sort  of  a  road  he  was  walking; 
by  his  fatigue  he  estimated,  without  conscious  thought,  how 
far  he  had  walked. 

When  he  had  gone  for  nearly  two  hours  the  storm  had 
come  so  much  nearer  that  the  lightning  constantly  blinded 
his  eyes.  He  heard  now  the  rushing  of  the  river,  and,  as 
he  turned  into  the  road  by  its  side,  he  saw  the  black  hill 


278  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  ii 

loomipf]^  large.  Nothing  but  the  momentum  of  a  will  already 
made  up  kept  his  intention  turned  to  the  climb,  so  unpropi- 
tious  was  the  time,  so  utterly  lonely  the  place.  As  it  was, 
with  quiescent  mind  and  vigorous  step,  he  held  on  down 
the  smooth  road  that  lay  beside  the  swollen  river. 

Some  way  further,  when  the  water  had  either  grown 
quieter  or  his  ear  accustomed  to  the  sound,  human  voices 
became  audible,  approaching  on  the  road.  Perhaps  they 
might  have  been  two  or  three  hundred  yards  away  when  he 
f.iSt  heard  them,  and  from  that  moment  his  mind,  roused 
from  its  long  monotony,  became  wholly  intent  upon  those 
who  were  drawing  near. 

It  was  a  woman's  voice  he  heard,  and  before  he  could  see 
her  in  the  least,  or  even  hear  her  footsteps  in  the  soft  mud, 
the  sense  of  her  words  came  to  him.  She  was  evidently 
speaking  under  the  influence  of  excitement,  not  loudly,  but 
with  that  peculiar  quality  of  tone  which  sometimes  makes 
a  female  voice  carry  further  than  is  intended.  She  was 
addressing  some  companion ;  she  was  also  walking  fast. 

"  There  was  a  time  when  I  thought  you  were  ambitious, 
and  would  therefore  do  great  things." 

There  was  an  exquisite  edge  of  disdain  in  her  tone  that 
seemed  to  make  every  word  an  insult  that  would  have  had 
power.  Alec  thought,  to  wither  any  human  vanity  on  which 
it  might  fall. 

Some  reply  she  received — he  could  not  hear  it — and  she 
went  on  with  such  intensity  in  her  voice  that  her  words  bore 
along  the  whole  current  of  Alec's  thought  with  them,  though 
they  came  to  him  falling  out  of  darkness,  without  perso- 
nality behind  them. 

"  We  may  call  it  ambition  when  we  try  to  climb  trees,  but 
it  is  not  really  so  for  us  if  we  once  had  mountain-tops  for 
our  goal." 

Again  came  a  short  reply,  a  man's  voice  so  much  lower  in 
key  that  again  he  could  not  hear ;  and  then : 

"  Yes,  I  have  wasted  years  in  tree  climbing,  more  shame 
to  me;  but  even  when  I  was  most  willing  to  forget  the 


CHAP.  XXI]  WHAT  NEC  ESS /TV  KNOWS 


279 


highest,  I  don't  think  a  little  paltry  prosperity  in  the  com- 
monplace atmosphere  of  a  colony  would  have  tempted  me 
to  sell  my  birthright." 

The  man  she  was  rating  answered,  and  the  clear  voice 
came  proudly  again: 

"  You  have  at  least  got  the  pottage  that  pleases  you — you 
are  a  success  in  this  Canadian  world." 

Just  then  the  soft,  wet  sound  of  feet  tramping  in  mud 
came  to  him,  and  apparently  the  sound  of  his  own  feet  was 
heard  also,  for  the  talking  stopped  until  he  had  passed 
them.  He  discerned  their  figures,  but  so  dimly  he  could 
hardly  have  told  they  were  man  and  woman  had  he  not 
known  it  before  by  their  voices.  They  were  walking  very 
fast,  and  so  was  he.  In  a  moment  or  two  they  were  out  of 
sight,  and  he  had  ceased  to  hear  their  footsteps.  Then  he 
heard  them  speak  again,  but  the  wind  blew  their  words 
from  him. 

The  tones,  the  accent,  of  the  woman  who  had  been  speak- 
ing, told  that  she  was  what,  in  good  old  English,  used  to  be 
called  a  lady.  Alec  Trenholme,  who  had  never  had  much 
to  do  with  well-bred  women,  was  inclined  to  see  around  each 
a  halo  of  charm;  and  now,  after  his  long,  rough  exile,  this 
disposition  was  increased  in  him  tenfold.  Here,  in  night 
and  storm,  to  be  roused  from  the  half  lethargy  of  mechanical 
exercise  by  the  modulations  of  such  a  voice,  and  forced  by 
the  strength  of  its  feeling  to  be,  as  it  were,  a  confidant— 
this  excited  him  not  a  little.  For  a  few  moments  he  thought 
of  nothing  but  the  lady  and  what  he  had  heard,  conjecturing 
all  things;  but  he  did  not  associate  her  with  the  poor  people 
he  had  been  told  were  to  meet  that  night  upon  the  mountain. 

Roused  by  the  incident,  and  alert,  another  thought  came 
quickly,  however.  He  was  getting  past  the  large  black  hill, 
but  the  lane  turning  to  it  he  had  not  found.  Until  he  now 
tried  with  all  his  might  to  see,  he  did  not  fully  know  how 
difficult  seeing  was. 

The  storm  was  not  near  enough  to  suggest  danger,  for 
there  was  still  more  than  a  minute  between  each  flash  and 


28o  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  ii 

its  peal.  As  light  rain  drifted  in  his  face,  he  braced  himself 
to  see  by  the  next  flash  and  remember  what  he  saw;  but 
when  it  came  he  only  knew  that  it  reflected  light  into  the 
pools  on  the  road  in  front  of  him,  and  revealed  a  black 
panorama  of  fence  and  tree,  field  and  hill,  that  the  next 
moment  was  all  so  jumbled  in  his  mind  that  he  did  not 
know  where  to  avoid  the  very  puddles  he  had  seen  so  clearly, 
and  splashed  on  through  them,  with  no  better  knowledge  of 
his  way,  and  eyes  too  dazzled  to  see  what  otherwise  they 
would  have  seen.  In  this  plight  he  did  not  hesitate,  but 
turned  and  ran  after  the  two  he  had  met,  to  ask  his  way, 
thinking,  as  he  did  so,  that  he  must* have  already  passed  the 
lane. 

With  some  effort  he  caught  them  up.  They  must  have 
heard  him  coming,  for  their  voices  were  silent  as  he  ap- 
proached. He  asked  for  the  lane  to  Cooper's  Farm,  which 
he  had  been  told  was  the  name  of  the  house  at  the  foot  of 
the  mountain  path.  They  both  hesitated  in  their  walk. 
The  man,  who  ought  to  have  answered,  seemed,  for  some 
reason,  suddenly  dumb.  After  waiting  impatiently,  {he 
lady  took  upon  herself  to  reply.  She  said  they  had  not  yet 
reached  the  turning  to  the  farm.  She  remarked  that  they 
were  going  to  the  same  place. 

Then  they  went  on  again,  and  he,  too,  walked  quickly, 
supposing  that  he  could  soon  pass  them  and  get  in  front. 
It  is  not  the  matter  of  a  moment,  however,  to  pass  people 
who  are  walking  at  a  rate  of  speed  almost  equal  to  one's 
own.  He  had  the  awkwardness  of  feeling  that,  whether  he 
would  or  no,  he  was  obliged  to  intrude  upon  them.  He 
noticed  they  were  not  walking  near  together;  but  when 
one  is  tramping  and  picking  steps  as  best  one  can  in  mud 
that  is  hidden  in  darkness,  it  is,  perhaps,  more  natural 
that  two  people  on  a  wide  road  should  give  one  another  a 
wide  berth.  At  any  rate,  for  a  minute  all  three  were  mak- 
ing their  way  through  puddles  and  over  rough  places  in 
silence.  Then,  when  Alec  thought  he  had  got  a  few  paces 
in  advance,  he  heard  the  lady  speak  again,  and  of  himself. 


CHAP.  XXI]  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  281 

"  Did  you  tliink  you  knew  that  man?  " 

There  was  no  answer.  Alec  felt  angry  with  her  compan- 
ion that  he  should  dare  to  sulk  so  obviously.  After  a 
minute  or  two  mo"!  of  fast  walking,  she  said  again: 

"  I  can't  think  where  he  has  gone  to.  Do  you  see  him 
anywhere?" 

To  this  again  there  was  no  answer.  Alec  naturally  went 
the  quicker  that  he  might  get  out  of  hearing.  As  he  did  so 
he  wondered  much  that  his  fellow-travellers  went  so  fast, 
or  rather  that  the  lady  did,  for  she,  although  some  way 
behind,  seemed  to  keep  very  near  to  him. 

On  they  went  in  silence  for  ten  minutes  more,  when  the 
lady  again  took  up  her  reproachful  theme.  Her  voice  was 
quieter  now,  but  amid  the  harmonious  sounds  of  wind  and 
river  he  still  heard  it  distinctly.  The  clear  enunciation  of 
her  words  seemed  to  pierce  through  the  baffling  noises  of 
the  night  as  a  ray  of  light  pierces  through  darkness,  albeit 
that  there  was  excitement  in  her  tones,  and  her  speech  was 
interspersed  with  breathless  pauses. 

"I  have  been  rude;  but  you  insisted  upon  my  rudeness, 
now  you  are  offended  by  it.  So  be  it — let  me  say  some- 
thing else!  I  don't  much  believe  now  in  all  the  sentiment 
that  used  to  seem  so  noble  to  me  about  forgetting  oneself. 
No  thoughtful  person  can  forget  himself,  and  no  candid 
person  says  he  has  done  it.  What  we  need  is  to  think  more 
of  ourselves — to  think  so  much  of  durselves  that  all  aims 
but  the  highest  are  beneath  us — are  impossible  to  our  own 
dignity.     What  we  chiefly  need  is  ambition." 

She  stopped  to  take  breath.  It  seemed  to  Alec  she  came 
near  enough  to  see  him  as  she  continued.  He  could  think 
of  nothing,  however,  but  what  she  was  saying.  He  felt 
1  instinctively  that  it  was  because  of  haste  and  some  cause  of 

excitement,  not  in  spite  of  them,  that  this  lady  could  speak 
as  she  now  did. 

"  Christianity  appeals  to  self-regard  as  the  motive  of  our 
best  action,"  she  went  on,  giving  out  her  words  in  short 
sentences,  "  so  there  must  be  a  self-regard  which  is  good — 


282  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [hook  ii 

too  good  to  degrade  itself  to  worldly  ends;  too  good  even 
to  be  a  part  of  tliat  amalgam — the  gold  of  unselfishness 
and  the  alloy  of  selfishness — which  makes  the  ordinary 
motive  of  the  ordinary  good  man." 

Her  voice  seemed  to  vibrate  with  scorn  on  the  emphasized 
words. 

"  If  we  desired  to  live  nearer  heaven "  she  said,  and 

then  she  stopped. 

Alec  turned  perforce  to  tell  her,  whnt  she  must  now  per- 
ceive, that  he  was  still  close  to  them;  but  this  impulse  was 
checked  by  a  sudden  thought.  Was  she  not  addressing 
himself?    Was  there  another  man  now  with  her? 

He  stopped,  looked  backward,  listened.  He  was  quite 
alone  with  the  lady,  who  went  past  him  now,  only  looking, 
as  she  walked,  to  see  why  he  was  tarrying.  In  his  fierce 
young  loyalty  to  her  he  took  for  granted,  without  question 
or  proof,  that  her  escort  had  deserted  her  in  revenge  for  her 
disdain.  He  would  willingly  have  gone  back  to  fetch  him 
up,  but  the  impossibility  of  finding  a  man  who  did  not  wish 
to  be  found,  the  impossibility,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  of  letting 
her  go  further  alone,  the  boorishness  of  calling  after  her — 
all  this  constrained  him  to  follow.  He  ran  to  make  his 
communication  gently,  and,  as  he  ran,  courage  to  make  it 
failed  him.  He  thought  of  her  as  delicately  accustomed  to 
incessant  protection.  At  the  thought  of  letting  her  know 
that  she  was  telling  her  thoughts  to  a  stranger,  that  she  was 
alone  at  such  hour  and  place  with  him,  his  throat  swelled. 
He  hated  to  speak  words  that  would  be  so  hateful  to  her; 
and  when  he  came  by  her  side  breathless,  and  she  spoke  to 
him  again,  he  walked  on,  waiting  till  she  should  stop,  try- 
ing to  formulate  what  he  had  to  say,  listening  and  watching 
intently  for  some  sign  of  the  recreant.  Again  speaking  as 
though  she  must  unburden  her  mind,  she  turned  into  the 
lane.  Over  its  fences  he  peered  down  the  dark  main  road, 
but  neither  in  flash  nor  interval  oould  the  other  man  be 
seen.  He  had  not  the  slightest  notion  what  the  lady  was 
saying  now ;  lofty  philosophy  or  practical  sarcasm  it  might 


CHAP.  XXI]  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  283 

be,  it  was  all  lost  in  his  exaggerated  idea  of  what  her  fear 
and  dismay  would  be  when  he  spoke. 

Before  he  had  a  chance  to  speak,  however,  he  saw,  in  dark 
outline,  the  building  of  the  farm  to  which  he  supposed  her 
to  be  going.  It  would  be  a  thousand  times  better  to  conduct 
her  in  silence  to  the  door,  which  was  now  so  near.  To  tell 
her  before  could  serve  no  end,  for  even  if  she  should  wish 
to  return  to  seek  her  late  companion  she  could  there  obtain 
an  escort.  So,  with  feeling  of  guiltiness  in  the  part  he  was 
acting,  and  in  the  surly  silence  he  assumed,  Alec  let  her 
lead  up  the  lane  she  must  know  better  than  he.  Her 
previous  speeches,  which  he  had  followed  so  closely,  were 
only  remembered  now  to  give  food  for  conjecture  as  to  who 
she  might  be  and  what  relation  she  held  to  her  late  com- 
panion. The  interest  in  his  own  journey  and  its  extraor- 
dinary object  were  lost  for  the  time  in  the  excitement  of 
his  knight-errantry. 

He  was  astonished  to  see  that  the  house,  as  they  neared 
it,  showed  no  sign  of  life  and  light.  The  lady,  whether 
inmate  or  guest,  must  surely  be  expected;  but  the  very  f 

roofs  of  the  house  and  huge  barns  seemed  to  droop  in  slum-  1 

ber,  so  black  was  the  whole  place  and  closely  shut.     Alec 
was  looking  out  for  the  house  gate  in  order  to  step  forward  ^ 

and  open  it,  when,  to  his  utter  surprise,  he  saw  that  the  | 

lady  with  haste  passed  it,  and  went  on  toward  the  hill.  \ 

He  stopped  with  hand  on  the  gate  and  called  her. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  she  asked,  checking  her  walk. 
"Are  you  ill?    What  is  it?" 

He  supposed  that  his  strange  voice  would  tell  her  all,  \ 

but,  although  she  was  evidently  puzzled,  to  his  further  | 

astonishment,  she  did  not  realise  that  he  was  a  stranger. 

"Why  do  you  speak  like  that?"  she  asked.  And  she 
talked  on  rapidly  about  some  waggon  she  expected  to  find 
at  the  foot  of  the  path.  She  went  on,  in  fact,  as  if  unable 
to  endure  the  loss  of  time ;  and  he,  thinking  of  the  waggon 
and  waggoner  as  a  further  point  of  safety  for  her,  ran  after. 
In  a  minute  they  both  came  out  of  the  lane  on  a  small  com- 


284 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  II 


mon.  Hero  were  two  horses  tied  under  a  tree  and  an  open 
waggon  with  its  shafts  hiid  down. 

"Call  the  man,"  she  said. 

To  Alec's  call  a  man  came  sleepily  from  a  small  barn 
that  was  near.  He  said  he  had  brouglit  about  a  dozen  women 
in  the  waggon,  and  they  had  gone  up  the  hill.  Impatiently 
she  demanded  of  him  how  long  it  was  since  they  had  started 
to  walk,  ajid  heard  it  was  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  She 
went  on  once  more,  with  what  seemed  to  Alec  incredible 
speed.  But  this  time  he  gave  way  to  no  further  indecision. 
Where  she  had  darted  under  the  trees  he  followed  in  her 
path. 

They  were  just  under  the  covert  of  the  first  trees  on  a 
steep  footpath  when  he  stopped  her,  and  above  him  she 
turned,  listening.  The  scent  of  moss  and  fern  and  over- 
hanging leaf  was  sweet.  So  perfect  a  woodland  bower  was 
the  place,  so  delicate  did  the  lady  seem  to  his  imagination, 
that  he  wished  he  could  tell  his  concern  for  her  alarm  and 
readiness  to  devote  himself  to  her  cause.  But  when  he  saw 
her  shrink  from  him,  he  could  only  stand  awkwardly,  tell 
her  in  a  few  clumsy  words  that  he  and  the  other  man  had 
changed  places,  he  did  not  know  how,  and  he  had  thought 
to  take  her  to  the  farm. 

"Your  voice  is  very  like  his,"  she  said,  looking  at  him 
strangely. 

But  he  now  knew  certainly,  what  for  the  last  hour  had 
seemed  to  him  almost  impossible,  that  in  very  truth  the 
religious  assembly  was  to  take  place  that  night;  and  the 
thought  of  it,  and  of  the  strange  excitement  with  which 
others  had  gone  before  them  on  that  same  path,  took  from 
Alec,  and,  he  supposed,  from  the  lady  also,  the  power  to 
give  much  consideration  to  their  own  strange  encounter. 
When  he  had  told  her  of  the  time  he  had  seen  old  Cam- 
eron at  prayer  in  the  lone  wintry  fields,  and  how  far  he  had 
just  walked  to  see  him  again  in  the  strange  conditions 
of  to-night,  they  climbed  on  together. 


CHAP.  XXII]        WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  285 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

Thkre  i8  nothinj?  of  which  men  take  less  heed  than  the 
infection  of  emotion,  a  tiling  as  real  as  that  mysterious 
influence  which  in  some  diseases  leaps  forth  from  one  to 
another  till  all  are  in  the  same  pain.  With  the  exception, 
perhaps,  of  the  infection  of  fear,  wliich  societies  have  learnt 
to  dread  by  tragic  experience,  man  still  fondly  supposes 
that  his  emotions  are  his  own,  that  they  must  rise  and  fall 
within  himself,  and  does  not  know  that  they  can  be  taken 
in  full  tide  from  another  and  imparted  again  without  decrease 
of  force.  May  God  send  a  healthful  spirit  to  us  all!  for 
good  or  evil,  we  are  part  of  one  another. 

There  were  a  good  many  people  who  went  up  the  moun- 
tain that  night  to  find  the  enthusiasts,  each  with  some  pur- 
pose of  interference  and  criticism.  They  went  secure  in 
their  own  sentiments,  but  with  minds  tickled  into  the  belief 
that  they  were  to  see  and  hear  some  strange  thing.  They 
saw  and  heard  not  much,  yet  they  did  not  remain  wholly 
their  own  masters.  Perhaps  the  idea  that  Cameron's 
assembly  would  be  well  worth  seeing  was  gleaned  partly 
from  the  lingering  storm,  for  an  approaching  storm  breeds 
in  the  mind  the  expectation  of  exciting  culmination,  but 
long  before  the  different  seekers  had  found  the  meeting 
place,  which  was  only  known  to  the  loyal-hearted,  the 
storm,  having  spent  itself  elsewhere,  had  passed  away. 

There  was  an  open  space  upon  a  high  slope  of  the  hill. 
Trees  stood  above  it,  below,  around — high,  black  masses  of 
trees.  It  was  here  old  Cameron's  company  had  gathered 
together.  No  woodland  spot,  in  dark,  damp  night,  ever 
looked  more  wholly  natural  and  of  earth  than  this.  Sophia 
Rexford  and  Alec  Trenholme,  after  long  wandering,  came 
to  the  edge  of  this  opening,  and  stopped  the  sound  of  their 
own  movements  that  they  might  look  and  listen.  They 
saw  the  small  crowd  assembled  some  way  off,  but  could  not 


286 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  II 


recognise  the  figures  or  count  them.  Listening  intently, 
they  heard  the  swaying  of  a  myriad  leaves,  the  drip  of  their 
moisture,  the  trickle  of  rivulets  that  the  rain  had  started 
again  in  troughs  of  summer  drought,  and,  amidst  all  these, 
the  old  man's  voice  in  accents  of  prayer. 

Even  in  her  feverish  eagerness  to  seek  Winifred,  which 
had  sustained  her  so  long,  Sophia  chose  now  to  skirt  the 
edge  of  the  wood  rather  than  cross  the  open.  As  they  went 
through  long  grass  and  bracken,  here  and  there  a  fallen  log 
impeded  their  steps.  A  frog,  disturbed,  leaped  before  them 
in  the  grass ;  they  knew  what  it  was  by  the  sound  of  its 
falls.  Soon,  in  spite  of  the  rustle  of  their  walking,  they 
began  to  hear  the  old  man's  words 

It  seemed  that  he  was  repeating  such  passages  of  Scripture 
as  describe  the  Second  Coming  of  Jesus  Christ.  Whether 
these  were  strung  together  in  a  prayer,  or  whether  he  merely 
gave  them  forth  to  the  night  air  as  the  poetry  on  which 
he  fed  his  soul,  they  could  not  tell.  The  night  was  much 
lighter  now  than  when  the  storm  hung  over.  They  saw 
Cameron  standing  on  a  knoll  apart  from  his  company,  his 
face  upturned  to  the  cloudy  sky.  Beyond  him,  over  the 
lower  ranks  of  trees,  the  thunder  cloud  they  had  feared 
was  still  visible,  showing  its  dark  volume  in  the  southern 
sky  by  the  frequent  fiery  shudderings  which  flashed  through 
its  length  and  depth ;  but  it  had  swept  away  so  far  that  no 
sound  of  its  thunder  touched  their  air;  and  the  old  man 
looked,  not  at  it,  but  at  the  calm,  cloud-wrapped  sky  above. 

"  The  Son  of  Man  is  coming  in  the  clouds  of  heaven  with 
power,  and  great  glory." 

The  words  fell  upon  the  silence  that  was  made  up  of  the 
subdued  sounds  of  nature;  it  seemed  to  breathe  again  with 
them;  while  their  minds  had  time  to  te  taken  captive  by 
the  imagery.     Then  he  cried, 

"  He  shall  send  His  angels  with  a  trumpet,  and  a  great 
voice,  and  they  shall  gather  the  elect  upon  the  four  winds. 
Two  shall  be  in  the  fields ;  one  shall  be  taken  and  the  other 
left."     He  suddenly  broke  off  the  recitation  with  a  heart- 


CHAP.  XXII]        WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


287 


piercing  cry.  "  My  Lord  and  my  God !  Let  none  of  Thy 
children  here  be  left.  Let  none  of  those  loved  ones,  for 
whom  they  have  come  here  to  entreat  Thee,  be  among  those 
who  are  left.  Let  it  suffice  Thee,  Lord,  that  these  have 
come  to  meet  Thee  on  Thy  way,  to  ask  Thee  that  not  one 
of  their  beloved  may  be  passed  over  now,  wlien  Thou  comest 

The  last  word  was  insistent.  And  then  he  passed  once 
more  into  the  prayer  that  had  been  the  burden  of  his  heart 
and  voice  on  the  night  that  Alec  had  first  met  him.  That 
seemed  to  be  the  one  thought  of  his  poor  crazed  brain — 
"  Come,  Lord  Jesus !  " 

The  little  band  were  standing  nearer  the  trees  on  the 
upper  side  of  the  open.  They  seemed  to  be  praying. 
Sophia  came  to  the  end  of  the  straggling  line  they  formed, 
and  there  halted,  doubtful.  She  did  not  advance  to  claim 
her  sister;  she  was  content  to  single  out  her  childish  figure 
as  one  of  a  nearer  group.  She  tarried,  as  a  worshipper 
who,  entering  church  at  prayer-time,  waits  before  walking 
forward.  Alec  stood  beside  his  unknown  lady,  whose 
servitor  he  felt  himself  to  be,  and  looked  about  him  with 
no  common  interest.  About  thirty  people  were  clad  in 
white ;  there  were  a  few  others  in  ordinary  clothes ;  but  it 
was  impossible  to  tell  just  how  many  of  these  latter  were 
there  or  with  what  intent  they  had  come.  A  young  man 
in  dark  clothes,  who  stood  near  the  last  comers  peered  at 
them  very  curiously.  Alec  saw  another  man  sitting  under 
a  tree,  and  gained  the  impression,  from  his  attitude,  that 
he  was  suffering  or  perplexed.  It  was  all  paltry  and  piti- 
ful outwardly,  and  yet,  as  he  looked  about,  observing  this, 
what  he  saw  had  no  hold  on  his  mind,  which  was  occupied 
with  Cameron's  words;  and  under  their  influence,  the 
scene,  and  the  meaning  of  the  scene,  changed  as  his  mood 
changed  in  sympathy. 

A  hymn  began  to  rise.  One  woman's  voice  first  breathed 
it;  other  voices  mingled  with  hers  till  they  were  all  sing- 
ing.    It  was  a  sim^jle,  swaying  melody  in  glad  cadence. 


288 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  II 


The  tree  boughs  rocked  with  it  on  the  lessening  wind  of  the 
summer  night,  till,  with  the  cumulative  force  of  rising 
feeling,  it  seemed  to  expand  and  soar,  like  incense  from  a 
swinging  censer,  and,  high  and  sweet,  to  pass  at  length 
through  the  cloudy  walls  of  the  world.  The  music,  the 
words,  of  this  song  had  no  more  of  art  in  them  than  the 
rhythmic  cry  of  waves  that  ring  on  some  long  beach,  or  the 
regular  pulsations  of  the  blood  that  throbs  audibly,  telling 
our  sudden  joys.  Yet,  natural  as  it  was,  it  was  far  more 
than  any  other  voice  of  nature;  for  in  it  was  the  human 
soul,  that  can  join  itself  to  other  souls  in  the  search  for 
God;  and  so  complete  was  the  lack  of  form  in  the  yearning, 
that  this  soul  came  forth,  as  it  were,  unclothed,  the  more 
touching  because  in  naked  beauty. 

*'  Soon  you  will  see  your  Saviour  coming, 
In  the  air." 

So  they  sang.  This,  and  every  line,  was  repeated  many 
times.  It  was  only  by  repetition  that  the  words,  with 
their  continuity  of  meaning,  grew  in  ignorant  ears. 

"  All  the  thoughts  of  your  inmost  spirit 
Will  be  laid  bare, 
If  you  love  Him,  He  will  make  you 
White  and  fair." 


Then  the  idea  of  the  first  line  was  taken  up  again,  and  then 
again,  with  renewed  hope  and  exultation  in  the  strain. 

"  Hark  !  you  may  hear  your  Saviour  coming." 

It  was  a  well-known  Adventist  hymn  which  had  often 
roused  the  hearts  of  thousands  when  rung  out  to  the  air  in 
the  camp  meetings  of  the  northern  States;  but  to  those 
who  heard  it  first  to-night  it  came  as  the  revelation  of  a 
new  reality.  As  the  unveiling  of  some  solid  marble  figure 
would  transform  the  thought  of  one  wlio  had  taken  it,  when 
swathed,  for  a  ghost  or  phantom,  so  did  the  heart's  desire 


CHAP.  XXII]        IVHAT  NECESS/rV  KNOWS 


289 


of  these  singers  stand  out  now  with  such  intensity  as  to 
give  it  objective  existence  to  those  who  heard  their  song. 

Into  the  cloud-walled  heaven  they  all  looked.  It  is  in 
such  moments  that  a  man  knows  himself. 

Old  Cameron,  lifting  up  his  strong  voice  again,  was  be- 
wailing the  sin  of  the  world.  "  We  sinners  have  not  loved 
Thee,  0  Christ.  We  have  not  trusted  Thy  love.  We  have 
not  been  zealous  for  Thy  glory.  This — this  is  our  sin. 
All  else  Thou  would'st  have  mended  in  us ;  but  this — this 
is  our  sin.  Have  mercy!  Have  me^cy!  Have  mercy!" 
Long  confession  came  from  him  slowly,  bit  by  bit,  as  if 
sent  forth,  in  involuntary  cries,  from  a  heart  rent  by  the 
disappointment  of  waiting.  In  strong  voice,  clear  and 
ii'ue,  he  made  himself  one  with  the  vilest  in  this  pleading, 
and  all  the  vices  with  which  the  soul  of  man  has  degraded 
itself  were  again  summed  up  by  him  in  this — "  We  have 
not  loved  Thee.  We  have  not  trusted  Thy  love.  We  are 
proud  and  vain;  we  have  loved  ourselves,  not  Thee." 

How  common  the  night  was — just  like  any  other  night! 
The  clouds,  as  one  looked  at  them,  were  seen  to  swing  low, 
showing  lighter  and  darker  spaces.  How  very  short  a  time 
can  we  endure  the  tensest  mood!  It  is  like  a  branding 
iron,  which  though  it  leaves  its  mark  forever,  cannot  be 
borne  long.  The  soul  relaxes;  the  senses  reclaim  their 
share  of  us. 

Some  men  came  rather  rudely  out  from  under  the  trees, 
and  loitered  near.  Perhaps  all  present,  except  Cameron, 
noticed  them.  Alec  did;  and  felt  concerning  them,  he 
knew  not  why,  uneasy  suspicion.  He  noticed  other  things 
now,  although  a  few  minutes  before  he  had  been  insensible 
to  all  about  him.  He  saw  that  the  lady  he  waited  upon 
had  dropped  her  face  into  her  hands;  he  saw  that  her  dis- 
dainful and  independent  mood  was  melted.  Strangely 
enough,  his  mind  wandered  back  again  to  her  first  compan- 
ion, and  he  wondered  that  she  had  not  sent  back  for  him  or 
mourned  his  absence.  He  was  amazed  now  at  his  own 
assumption  that  design,  not  accident,  had  caused  such  de- 


J\ 


390  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOIVS  [hook  ii 

sertion.  He  could  almost  have  started  in  his  solicitude, 
to  seek  the  missing  man,  such  was  the  rebound  of  his 
mind.  Yet  to  all  this  he  only  gave  vagrant  thoughts,  such 
as  we  give  to  our  fellows  in  church.  The  temple  of  the 
night  had  become  a  holy  place,  and  his  heart  was  heavy 
— perhaps  for  his  old  friend,  standing  there  with  uplifted 
face,  perhaps  on  account  of  the  words  he  was  uttering, 
perhaps  in  contrition.  In  a  few  minutes  he  would  go  for- 
ward, and  take  the  old  preacher  by  the  arm,  and  try,  as  he 
had  once  tried  before,  to  lead  him  to  rest  and  shelter  from 
so  vain  an  intensity  of  prayer.  But  just  now  he  would  wait 
to  hear  the  words  he  said.  He  could  not  but  wait,  for  so 
dull,  so  silent,  did  all  things  remain,  that  the  earnestness 
of  the  expectant  band  made  itself  felt  as  an  agony  of  hope 
waning  to  despair. 

Absorbed  in  this.  Alec  heard  what  came  to  him  as  harsh 
profane  speech ;  and  yet  it  was  not  this ;  it  was  the  really 
modest  address  of  a  young  man  who  felt  constrained  to 
speak  to  him. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said  nervously  (his  accent  was  Ameri- 
can), "who  you  may  be,  but  I  just  wish  to  state  that  I've  a 
sort  of  notion  one  of  those  fellows  right  down  there  means 
mischief  to  one  of  these  poor  ladies  in  white,  who  is  his 
wife.  I  ain't  very  powerful  myself,  but,  I  take  it,  you're 
pretty  strong,  aren't  you?  " 

Alec  gave  impatient  assent;  but  the  men  whom  he  was 
asked  to  watch  approached  no  nearer  to  the  women  but 
remained  behind  the  preacher. 

All  this  time  old  Cameron  prayed  on,  and  while  it  might 
be  that  hope  in  his  followers  was  failing,  in  his  voice  there 
was  increasing  gladness  and  fervour. 

The  clouds  above  shifted  a  little.  To  those  wrapped 
in  true  anticipation  their  shifting  was  as  the  first  sign 
of  a  descending  heaven.  Somewhere  behind  the  thick 
clouds  there  was  a  crescent  moon ;  and  when  in  the  upper 
region  of  the  sky  a  rift  was  made  in  the  deep  cloud  cover, 
though  she  did  not  shine  through,  the  sky  beyond  was  lit 


CHAP.  XXII]         WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


291 


by  her  light,  and  the  upper  edges  of  cloud  were  white  as 
snow. 

As  the  well  of  clear  far  light  was  opened  to  the  old  man's 
gaze,  his  prayer  stopped  suddenly,  and  he  stood  only  look- 
ing upwards.  They  did  not  see  so  much  as  know  from 
the  manner  in  which  his  voice  had  tailed,  that  for  him, 
at  least,  there  were  moments  of  ecstasy  in  che  assurance 
of  hope. 

"  Poor  fellow ! "  muttered  Alec  under  his  breath,  for  he 
felt  the  poignant  disappointment  of  the  awakening. 

A  sweet  sound  made  some  of  them  turn  an  instant  toward 
the  wood,  for  a  little  bird,  disturbed  in  its  hiding  there, 
lilted  forth  a  twittering  song  of  joy. 

Its  notes  had  not  ceased  when  Alec  heard  a  gasp  of  ter- 
ror from  the  lady  near  him,  and  saw,  as  one  sees  an  act 
there  is  no  time  to  avert,  that  one  of  the  rough  fellows  who 
were  standing  behind  the  old  mai  had  suddenly  struck  him 
down  by  a  savage  blow  upon  the  head. 

Alec  Trenholme  ran  and  sprang  upon  the  man  who  had 
struck  the  blow.  Some  other  man,  he  did  not  see  which, 
wrested  the  club  from  the  fellow's  hand.  In  the  moments 
Alec  was  grappling  with  him  he  became  conscious  that  the 
old  man  lying  near  his  feet  on  the  grass  was  more  to  him 
than  revenge,  and,  with  the  caprice  of  a  boy  who  turns 
from  what  interests  him  less  to  what  interests  him  more, 
he  contented  himself  with  hurling  the  assailant  from  him, 
so  that  he  fell  heavily  down  the  sloping  ground  to  where 
his  companions  stood.  Then  Alec  pushed  others  aside  and 
lifted  the  head  of  the  wounded  man. 

Wounded?  His  hair  was  wet  with  warm  blood.  There 
was  something  done — a  good  deal  done,  by  many  people — 
to  restore  him.  Alec  remembered  afterwards  that  the 
young  man  who  had  previously  spoken  to  him  had  been 
active,  showing  a  more  personal  solicitude  than  was  seen 
in  the  awed  kindness  even  of  the  women.  One  lives 
through  such  scenes  with  little  real  perception  of  their 
details.     He  knew  at  last  for  certain  that  he  put  his 


292  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  ii  | 

burden  from  him,  and  throwing  himself  down  laid  his  ear 
on  the  broad,  muscular  breast.  Long  as  he  listened,  there 
was  no  movemerl  there.     The  mad  old  preacher  was  dead. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


When  Alec  Trenholme  rose  from  the  dead  man's  side  he 
felt  his  shoulder  taken  hold  of  by  a  familiar  hand.  He 
knew  at  once  that  it  was  his  brother.  It  was  quite  what 
he  would  have  expected,  that  Eobert  should  be  there;  it 
was  surely  his  business  to  come  after  straying  sheep. 

The  manslayer,  awed  and  sobered  by  finding  what  he  had 
done,  had  been  easily  overpowered.  Even  his  comrades 
helped  to  bind  him.  He  was  a  poor  creature  at  best,  and 
was  now  in  the  misery  that  comes  with  sudden  reaction 
from  the  exaltation  of  strong  drink. 

Alec  saw  that  his  brother  was  limping,  that  he  seemed 
in  actual  pain;  he  was  anxious  to  know  how  this  was,  yet 
he  did  not  say  so.  He  asked  rather  if  Robert  thought  that 
the  old  man  had  consciously  awakened  from  his  trance  of 
expectation,  and  they  both,  in  spite  of  all  that  pressed, 
stooped  with  a  lantern  some  one  had  lit  to  look  again  at 
the  dead  face.  Just  as  he  might  have  looked  when  the 
heavens  seemed  to  open  above  him,  so  he  looked  now. 
They  talked  together,  wondering  who  he  really  was,  as  men 
find  words  for  what  is  easiest  to  say,  although  not  relevant 
to  the  moment's  necessity. 

So  absorbing  is  the  interest  of  death  to  those  who  live  in 
peaceful  times  that,  now  that  there  was  a  lamp,  all  there 
required  to  slake  their  curiosity  by  lingering  gaze  and 
comment  before  they  would  turn  away.  Even  the  prisoner, 
when  he  saw  the  lantern  flashed  near  the  face  of  the  dead, 
demanded  to  be  allowed  to  look  before  they  led  him  down 
the  hill.  His  poor  wife,  who  had  expected  his  violence  to 
fall  only  on  herself,  kept  by  him,  hysterically  regretting 
that  she  had  not  been  the  victim. 


CHAP.  XXIII]       WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


293 


Yet,  although  all  this  had  taken  place,  it  was  only  a  she  ""t 
time  before  the  energy  of  a  few,  acting  upon  the  paralysed 
will  of  others,  had  cleared  the  ground.  The  white-dressed 
women  crossed  the  open  to  the  descending  path,  huddling 
together  as  they  walked,  their  eyes  perfort  e  upon  the  rough 
ground  over  which  they  must  pick  their  steps.  There  was 
many  a  rift  now  in  the  breaking  clouds  above  them,  but 
only  a  few  turned  an  upward  passionate  glance.  Sophia 
moved  away  in  their  midst.  Seeing  her  thus  surrounded, 
Alec  did  not  feel  that  he  need  approach. 

"I  don't  know  who  she  is,"  he  said,  pointing  her  out  to 
Kobert.  "I  happened,  in  a  queer  way,  to  come  up  here 
with  her."  He  paused  a  moment.  Some  sentiment  such 
as  that  she  was  a  queen  amOng  women  was  in  his  mind, 
but  it  did  not  rise  to  his  lips.  "  She  would  like  your  help 
better  than  mine,"  he  added.  "If  you  will  see  that  she  and 
her  little  sister  are  taken  care  of,  I  will  stay  here" — he 
gave  a  gesture  toward  the  corpse — "till  a  stretcher  comes." 

"  I  will  do  my  best  to  take  care  of  them  all, "  Robert 
Trenholme  answered  with  a  sigh. 

Old  McNider  and  his  little  boy  walked  behind  the 
women.  Robert,  limping  as  he  went,  lifted  the  sleepy 
child  in  his  arms  and  joined  himself  to  the  company. 
They  went  under  the  dripping  trees,  down,  down  the  dark, 
slippery  path.  The  white  robes  hardly  glimmered  in  the 
darkness.  Some  of  the  women  wept;  some  of  them  held 
religious  conversation,  using  such  forms  of  expression  as 
grow  up  among  certain  classes  of  pious  people  and  jar  ter- 
ribly on  unaccustomed  ears.  Those  who  talked  at  this 
time  had  less  depth  of  character  than  those  who  were 
silent,  and  there  was  evinced  in  their  conversation  a  cer- 
tain pride  of  resistance  to  criticism — that  is,  they  wished 
to  show  that  ii'  what  they  had  looked  for  had  not  come  that 
night,  their  expectation  of  it  had  been  reasonable,  and  that 
their  greatest  hopes  would  shortly  be  realised  to  the  con- 
founding of  unbelievers.  They  did  not  know  the  manner 
of  their  spirit.     Few  who  indulge  in  demonstration  of  piety 


294  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  ii 

as  a  relief  to  feeling  ever  perceive  how  easily  the  natural 
passions  can  flow  into  this  channel. 

Jesus  wished  to  try  their  faith,  sr.id  they,  but  they  would 
not  cast  away  tlieir  lamps;  no,  they  must  keep  them 
trimmed  and  burning.  They  could  not  live  unless  they 
felt  that  dear  Jesus  might  come  for  them  any  night. 

"Blessed  be  His  holy  Name!"  cried  one.  "When  He 
comes  the  world  will  see  Him  Whom  they  have  despised, 
and  His  saints  they  have  looked  down  on,  too,  reignin' 
together  in  glory.  Yes,  glory  be  to  Jesus,  there'll  be  a 
turnin'  of  the  tables  soon." 

To  Trenholme  it  seemed  that  they  bandied  about  the 
sacred  name.     He  winced  each  time. 

One  woman,  with  more  active  intellect  than  some  of  the 
rest,  began  to  dilate  on  the  signs  already  in  the  world 
which  proved  the  Second  Advent  was  near.  Her  tone  was 
not  one  of  exulted  feeling,  but  of  calm  reason.  Her  desire 
was  evidently  to  strengthen  her  sisters  who  might  be  cast 
down.  In  her  view  all  the  ages  of  the  history  of  the  vast 
human  race  were  seen  in  the  natural  perspective  which 
makes  things  that  are  near  loom  larger  than  all  that  is  far. 
The  world,  she  affirmed,  was  more  evil  than  it  had  ever 
been.  In  the  Church  there  was  such  spiritual  death  as 
never  before.  The  few  great  revivals  there  were  showed 
that  now  the  poor  were  being  bidden  from  the  highways  to 
the  marriage  feast.  And,  above  all  else,  it  was  now  proved 
that  the  coming  of  the  Lord  was  nigh,  because  bands  of  the 
elect  everywhere  were  watching  and  waiting  for  the  great 
event.  Her  speech  was  well  put  forth  in  the  midst  of  the 
weary  descent.  She  did  not  say  more  than  was  needed. 
If  there  were  drooping  hearts  among  her  friends  they  were 
probably  cheered. 

Then  some  more  emotional  talkers  took  up  the  exultant 
strain  again.  It  was  hard  for  Trenholme  not  to  estimate 
the  inner  hearts  of  all  these  women  by  the  words  that  he 
heard,  and  therefore  to  attribute  all  the  grace  of  the  mid- 
night hour  to  the  dead. 


CHAP.  XXIII]       WHAT  NFXESSrrV  k'lVOlVS 


295 


When  they  q-ot  to  the  bottom  of  tlie  liill,  the  farmer,  at 
the  request  o^  men  w  ho  had  f^one  first,  had  anotlier  waggon 
in  readiness  to  take  licme  the  women  who  had  come  to  the 
hill  on  foot  or  who  had  sint  away  their  vehicles.  Many  of 
them  did  not  belong  to  tlie  village  of  Chellaston.  It  was 
evidently  better  that  the  lighter  waggon  which  had  come 
from  Chellaston  should  go  round  now  to  the  outlying 
farms,  and  that  all  the  villagers  should  return  in  that 
provided  by  the  farmer.  Trenholme  put  in  the  child,  who 
was  now  sleeping,  and  helped  in  the  women,  one  by  one. 
Their  white  skirts  were  wet  and  soiled;  he  felt  this  as  he 
aided  them  to  dispose  them  on  the  straw  which  had  been 
put  in  for  warmth.  The  farmer,  an  Englishman,  made 
some  wise,  and  not  uncivil,  observations  upon  the  expedi- 
ency of  remaining  at  home  at  dead  of  night  as  compared 
with  ascending  hills  in  white  frocks.  He  was  a  kind  man, 
but  his  words  made  Winifred's  tears  flow  afresh.  She 
shrank  behind  the  rest.  Trenholme  kissed  her  little  cold 
hand  when  he  had  put  her  in.  Then,  last  of  all,  he  helped 
Sophia. 

She  had  no  words  ready  now  to  offer  him  by  which  to 
make  amends.     "  You  have  hurt  your  foot?  "  she  said. 

He  told  her  briefly  that  his  foot  had  twisted  under  him, 
so  that  at  first  he  had  not  been  able  to  come  on  for  tlie 
sprain,  and  he  clasped  her  hand  as  he  bade  the  waggon 
drive  on. 

Feeling  the  lack  of  apology  on  her  own  part  she  thought 
he  had  shown  himself  the  greater,  in  that  he  had  evidently 
pardoned  her  without  it. 

He  did  not  feel  himself  to  be  great. 

The  cart  jolted  away.  Trenholme  stood  in  the  farmyard. 
The  light  of  a  lantern  made  a  little  flare  about  the  stable 
door.  The  black,  huge  barns  around  seemed  to  his  weary 
sense  oppressive  in  their  nearness.  The  waggon  disap- 
peared down  the  dark  lane.  The  farmer  talked  more 
roughly,  now  that  kindness  no  longer  restrained  him,  of 
the  night's   event.     Trenholme   leaned  against  a  white- 


296  WHAT  NECESSITY  KATOtVS  [book  ii 

washed  wall,  silent  but  not  listening.  He  almost  wondered 
he  did  not  faint  witli  tlie  pain  in  liis  ankle;  the  long  strain 
he  had  put  upon  the  liurt  muscle  rendered  it  almost  agonis- 
ing, but  faintness  did  not  come:  it  seldom  does  to  those 
who  sigh  for  it,  as  for  the  wings  of  a  dove,  that  they  may- 
go  far  away  with  it  and  be  at  rest.  The  farmer  shut  tlie 
stable  door,  put  out  the  light,  and  Trenholme  limped  into 
the  house  with  him  to  wait  for  his  brother. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


All  this  time  Alec  was  walking,  like  a  sentry,  up  and 
down  beside  the  old  man's  corpse.  He  was  not  alone. 
When  the  others  had  gone  he  found  that  the  young  Ameri- 
can had  remained  with  him.  He  came  back  from  the  lower 
trees  whence  he  had  watched  the  party  disappear. 

"  Come  to  think  of  it,"  he  said,  "  I'll  keep  you  company." 

Something  in  his  manner  convinced  Alec  that  this  was 
no  second  thought ;  he  had  had  no  intention  of  leaving.  He 
was  a  slight  fellow,  and,  apparently  too  tired  now  to  wish 
to  stand  or  walk  longer,  he  looked  about  him  for  a  seat. 
None  offered  in  the  close  vicinity  of  the  corpse  and  Alec, 
its  sentinel;  but,  equal  to  his  own  necessity,  he  took  a 
newspaper  from  his  pocket,  folded  it  into  a  small  square, 
laid  it  on  the  wet  beaten  grass,  and  sat  thereon,  arching  his 
knees  till  only  the  soles  of  his  boots  touched  the  ground. 
To  Alec's  eye  his  long,  thin  figure  looked  so  odd,  bent  into 
this  repeated  angle,  that  he  almost  suspected  burlesque,  but 
none  was  intended.  The  youth  clasped  his  hands  round 
his  knees,  the  better  to  keep  himself  upright,  and  seated 
thus  a  few  yards  from  the  body,  he  shared  the  watch  for 
some  time  as  mute  as  was  all  else  in  that  silent  place. 

Alec's  curiosity  became  aroused.  At  last  he  hesitated  in 
his  walk. 

"  You  are  from  the  States?  " 


CHAP.  XXIV]        IVHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


397 


"Well,  yes;  I  am.  But  I  reckon  I'm  prouder  of  my 
country  tlian  it  lias  reason  to  be  of  me.  I'm  down  in  the 
moutli  to-night — that's  a  fact." 

A  fine  description  of  sorrow  would  not  have  been  so 
eloquent,  but  exactly  what  he  sorrowed  for  Alec  did  not 
know.     It  could  hardly  be  for  the  death  merely. 

Alec  paced  again.  He  had  made  himself  an  uneven  track 
in  the  ragged  grass.  Had  the  lineaments  of  the  dead  been 
more  clearly  seen,  death  would  have  had  a  stronger  influ- 
ence; but  even  as  it  was,  death,  darkness,  and  solitude  had 
a  language  of  their  own,  in  which  the  hearts  of  the  two  men 
shared  more  or  less. 

At  length  the  American  spoke,  arresting  Alec's  walk. 

•'  See  here,"  he  said,  "  if  what  they  say  is  true — and  as  far 
as  I  know  it  is — he's  got  up  from  being  dead  once  already." 

The  emphasis  on  the  word  "  once  "  conveyed  the  sugges- 
tion which  had  evidently  just  occurred  to  him. 

"Oh,  I  know  all  about  thai  story."  Alec  spoke  with  the 
scorn  of  superior  information,  casting  off  the  disagreeable 
suggestion.     "I  was  there  myself." 

"You  were,  were  you?  Well,  so  was  I,  and  I  tell  you  I 
know  no  more  than  babe  unborn  whether  this  old  gentle- 
man's Cameron  or  not." 

Alec's  mind  was  singularly  free  from  any  turn  for  specu- 
lative thought.  He  intended  to  bring  Bates  to  see  the  dead 
in  the  morning,  and  that  would  decide  the  matter.  He  saw 
no  sense  in  debating  a  question  of  fact. 

"I  was  one  of  the  fellows  in  that  survey,"  explained 
Harkness,  "and  if  you're  the  fellow  we  saw  at  the  station, 
as  I  reckon  you  are,  then  I  don't  know  any  more  about  this 
old  gentleman  I've  been  housing  than  you  do." 

Trenholme  had  an  impulse  to  command  silence,  but, 
resisting  it,  only  kept  silence  himself  and  resumed  his  tread 
over  the  uneven  ground. 

"'Tisn't  true,"  broke  in  the  other  again,  in  unexpected 
denial  of  his  own  words, "that  that's  all  I  know.  I  know 
something  more;  'tisn't  much,  perhaps,  but,  as  I  value  my 


298  IVHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [hook  ii 

soul's  salvation,  I'll  say  it  hero.  Before  I  left  the  iieigh- 
bourliood  of  Turrifs,  1  heard  of  this  old  g(uitleinan  here 
a-making  his  way  round  the  eountry,  and  I  i)ut  in  currency 
the  report  that  lie  was  Cameron,  and  I've  no  doubt  that  that 
suggestion  made  the  country  folks  head  him  off  towards 
Turrifs  Station  as  far  as  they  could  influence  his  route;  and 
that'll  be  how  he  came  there  at  Christmas  time.  Look  you 
here!  I  didn't  know  then,  and  1  don't  know  now,  whether 
he  ioa8  or  waan't — I  didn't  think  he  was — but  for  a  scheme 
I  had  afoot  I  set  that  idea  going.  I  did  it  by  telegraphing 
it  along  the  line,  as  if  I'd  been  one  of  the  operators.  The 
thing  worked  better  than  I  expected." 

Alec  listened  without  the  feeling  of  interest  the  words 
were  expected  to  arouse.  To  his  mind  a  fellow  who  spoke 
glibly  about  his  soul's  salvation  was  either  silly  or  profane. 
He  had  no  conception  that  this  man,  whose  way  of  regard- 
ing his  own  feelings,  and  whose  standard  of  propriety  as  to 
their  expression,  diifered  so  much  from  his  own,  was,  in 
reality,  going  through  a  moral  crisis. 

"Well?"  said  he. 

"Well,  I  guess  that's  about  all  I  have  to  say." 

"If  you  don't  know  anything  more,  I  don't  see  that 
you've  t">ld  me  anything."  He  meant,  anything  worth 
telling,  for  he  did  not  feel  that  he  had  any  interest  with 
the  other's  tricks  or  schemes. 

"I  do  declare,"  cried  Harkness,  without  heeding  his 
indifference,  "I'm  just  cut  up  about  this  night's  affair;  I 
never  thought  Job  would  set  on  anyone  but  his  wife.  I  do 
regret  I  brought  this  good  old  gentleman  to  this  place.  If 
some  one  offered  me  half  Bates's  land  now,  I  wouldn't  feel 
inclined  to  take  it." 

Trenholme  returned  to  his  pacing,  but  when  he  had 
passed  and  re-passed,  he  said,  "Cameron  doesn't  seem  to 
have  been  able  to  preach  and  pray  like  an  educated  man; 
but  Bates  is  here,  he  will  see  him  to-morrow,  and  if  he 
doesn't  claim  the  body,  the  police  will  advertise.  Some 
one  must  know  who  the  old  man  is." 


CHAP.  XX rv]        WHAT  NECESSITY  k'NOU'S 


299 


The  words  that  came  in  return  seemed  singuhirly  irrele- 
vant. "  What  about  the  find  of  asbestos  the  surveyor 
tliouglit  lie'd  got  on  the  hills  where  Hates's  clearing  is? 
Has  Hates  got  a  big  offer  for  the  land?" 

"He  has  had  some  correspondence  about  it,"  said  Tren- 
holme,  stiffly. 

"He'll  be  a  rich  man  yet,"  remarked  the  American, 
gloomily.  "Asbestos  mines  are  piling  in  dollars,  [  can  tell 
you.  It's  a  shame,  to  my  mind,  that  a  snapping  crab-stick 
like  that  old  Hates  should  have  it  all."  He  rose  as  with 
the  irritation  of  the  idea,  but  appeared  arrested  as  he  looked 
down  at  the  dead  man.  "  And  when  I  think  how  them  poor 
ladies  got  their  white  skirts  draggled,  I  do  declare  I  feel 
cut  up  to  that  extent  I  wouldn't  care  for  an  asbestos  mine 
if  somebody  came  and  offered  it  to  me  for  nothing  this 
minute." 

Then,  too  absorbed  in  feeling  to  notice  the  bathos  of  his 
speech,  he  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  began  stroll- 
ing up  and  down  a  beat  of  his  own,  a  few  yards  from  the 
track  Trenholme  had  made,  and  on  the  other  side  of  the 
dead. 

As  they  walked  at  different  paces,  and  passing  each  other 
at  irregular  times,  perhaps  the  mind  of  each  recurred  to  the 
remembrance  of  the  other  ghostly  incident  and  the  rumour 
that  the  old  man  had  already  risen  once.  The  open  spot  of 
sloping  ground  surrounded  by  high  black  trees,  which  had 
been  so  lately  trodden  by  many  feet,  seemed  now  the  most 
desolate  of  desolate  places.  The  hymn,  the  prayer,  that 
had  arisen  there  seemed  to  leave  in  the  air  only  that  lin- 
gering influence  which  past  excitement  lends  to  its  acute 
reaction. 

A  sudden  sharp  crack  and  rustling,  coming  from  out  the 
gloom  of  the  trees,  startled  them. 

"Ho!"  shouted  the  American.  "Stand!  Is  there  any 
one  there?" 

And  Alec  in  his  heart  called  him  a  fool  for  his  pains,  and 
yet  he  himself  had  not  been  less  startled. 


300  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  ir 

Nothing  more  was  heard.     It  was  only  that  time-time, 
that  mysterious  medium  through  which  circumstance  comes 

LZ,  ^  \  'T''  °^  ^'^"^'  *^^^  ^"^^^r  ^hich,  unseen, 
unfelt  unheard,  flows  onward  everywhere-had  just  then 
brought  the  moment  for  some  dead  brancli  to  fall. 


END   OP   BOOK   II. 


t;,^ 


BOOK  III. 


"  Nothing  is  inexorable  but  Love." 


CHAPTER  I. 


That  which  is  to  be  seen  of  any  event,  its  causes  and 
consequences,  is  never  important  compared  with  the  supreme 
importance  of  those  unseen  workings  of  things  physical  and 
things  spiritual  which  are  the  heart  of  our  life.  The  ice- 
berg of  the  northern  seas  is  less  than  its  unseen  foundations ; 
the  lava  stream  is  less  than  the  molten  sea  whence  it  issues ; 
the  apple  falling  to  the  ground,  and  the  moon  circling  in 
her  orbit,  are  less  than  the  great  invisible  force  which  con- 
trols their  movements  and  the  movements  of  all  the  things 
that  do  appear.  The  crime  is  not  so  great  as  its  motive, 
nor  yet  as  its  results ;  the  beneficent  deed  is  not  so  great  as 
the  beneficence  of  which  it  is  but  a  fruit;  yet  we  cannot 
see  beneficence,  nor  motives,  nor  far-reaching  results.  We 
cannot  see  the  greatest  forces,  which  in  hidden  places,  act 
and  counteract  to  bring  great  things  without  observation; 
we  see  some  broken  fragments  of  their  turmoil  which  now 
and  again  are  cast  up  within  our  sight. 

Notwithstanding  this,  which  we  all  know,  the  average 
man  feels  himself  quite  competent  to  observe  and  to  pass 
judgment  on  all  that  occurs  in  his  vicinity.  In  the  matter 
of  the  curious  experience  which  the  sect  of  the  Adventists 
passed  through  in  Chellaston,  the  greater  part  of  the  com- 
munity formed  prompt  judgment,  and  in  this  judgment  the 
chief  element  was  derision. 

The  very  next  day,  in  the  peaceful  Sunday  sunshine,  the 
good  people  of  Chellaston  (and  many  of  them  were  truly 
good)  spent  their  breath  in  expatiating  upon  the  absurdity 
of  those  who  had  met  with  the  madman  upon  the  mountain 
to  pray  for  the  descent  of  heaven.  It  was  counted  a  good 
thing  that  a  preacher  so  dangerously  mad  was  dead ;  and  it 

303 


\ 


304  ^      WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  hi 

was  considered  as  certain  that  his  followers  would  now  see 
their  folly  in  the  same  light  in  which  others  saw  it.  It 
was  reported  as  a  very  good  joke  that  when  one  white-clad 
woman  had  returned  to  her  home,  wan  and  weary,  in  the 
small  hours  of  the  night,  her  husband  had  refused  to  let 
her  in,  calling  to  her  from  an  upper  window  that  Ids  loife 
had  gone  to  have  a  fly  with  the  angels,  and  he  did  not  know 
who  ske  might  be.  Another  and  coarser  version  of  the  same 
tale  was,  that  he  liad  taken  no  notice  of  her,  but  had  called 
to  his  man  that  the  white  cow  had  got  loose  and  ought  to  be 
taken  back  into  the  paddock.  Both  versions  were  considered 
excellent  in  the  telling.  Many  a  worthy  Christian,  coming 
out  of  his  or  her  place  of  worship,  chuckled  over  the  wit  of 
this  amiable  husband,  and  observed,  in  the  midst  of  laugh- 
ter, that  his  wife,  poor  thing,  had  only  got  her  deserts. 

In  the  earlier  hours  of  that  Sunday  morning  rumour  had 
darted  about,  busily  telling  of  the  sudden  freak  the  drunk- 
ard's violence  had  taken,  and  of  Father  Cameron's  death. 
Many  a  version  of  the  story  was  brought  to  the  hotel,  but 
through  them  the  truth  sifted,  and  the  people  there  heard 
what  had  really  occurred.  Eliza  heard,  for  one,  and  was 
a  good  deal  shocked.  Still,  as  the  men  about  the  place 
remarked  that  it  was  a  happy  release  for  Father  Cameron, 
who  had  undoubtedly  gone  to  heaven,  and  that  it  was  an 
advantage,  too,  to  Job's  wife,  who  would  now  be  saved 
from  further  torment  at  her  husband's  hands,  her  mind 
became  acquiescent.  For  herself,  she  had  no  reason  to  be 
sorry  the  old  man  was  dead.  It  was  better  for  him ;  it  was 
better  for  her,  too.  So,  without  inward  or  outward  agita- 
tion, she  directed  the  morning  business  of  the  house,  setting 
all  things  in  such  order  that  she,  the  guiding  hand  of  it  all, 
might  that  afternoon  take  holiday. 

Some  days  before  she  had  been  in^dted  by  Mrs.  Rexford 
to  spend  this  afternoon  with  them  and  take  tea.  Then,  as 
it  was  said  that  Principal  Trenholme,  in  spite  of  a  sprained 
ankle,  had  insisted  upon  taking  the  Church  services  as 
usual,  all  the  fine  ladies  at  the  hotel  intended  to  go  and 


.L 


CHAP.  l] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


305 


d 

8 


hear  him  preach  in  the  evening.  Eliza  wouhl  go  too.  This 
programme  was  highly  agreeable  to  her,  more  so  than  excit- 
ing amusement  which  would  have  pleased  other  girls  better. 
Although  nothing  would  have  drawn  expression  of  the  fact 
from  her,  in  the  bottom  of  her  deeply  ambitious  heart  she 
felt  honoured  by  the  invitations  IVIiss  Rexford  obtained  for 
her,  and  ai)preciated  to  the  full  their  value.  She  also  knew 
the  worth  of  suitable  attendance  at  church. 

Sunday  was  always  a  peaceful  day  at  Chellaston.  Much 
that  was  truly  godly,  and  much  that  was  in  truth  worldly, 
combined  together  to  present  a  very  respectable  show  of 
sabbath-keeping.  The  hotel  shared  in  the  sabbath  quiet, 
especially  in  the  afternoon,  when  most  people  were  resting 
in  their  rooms. 

About  three  o'clock  Eliza  was  ready  to  go  to  her  room  on 
the  third  story  to  dress  for  the  afternoon.  Tliis  process 
was  that  day  important,  for  she  i)ut  on  a  new  black  silk 
gown.  It  was  beflounced  and  befrilled  according  to  the 
fashion  of  the  time.  When  she  had  arranged  it  to  a  nicety 
in  her  own  room,  she  descended  to  one  of  tlie  parlours  to 
survey  herself  in  the  pier  glass.  No  one  was  there.  The 
six  red  velvet  chairs  and  the  uniform  sofa  stood  in  perfect 
order  round  the  room.  The  table,  with  figured  cloth,  had  a 
large  black  Bible  on  it  as  usual.  On  either  side  of  the  long 
looking-glass  was  a  window,  in  which  the  liglit  of  day  was 
somewhat  dulled  by  coarse  lace  curtains.  Abundance  of 
light  there  was,  however,  for  Eliza's  purpose.  She  shut 
the  door,  and  pushed  aside  the  table  which  held  the  Bible, 
the  better  to  show  herself  to  herself  in  the  looking-glass. 

Eliza  faced  herself.  She  turned  and  looked  at  herself 
over  one  shoulder;  then  she  looked  over  the  other  shoulder. 
As  she  did  so,  the  curving  column  of  her  white  neck  was  a 
thing  a  painter  might  have  desired  to  look  at,  had  he  been 
able  to  take  his  eyes  from  the  changeful  sheen  on  her  glossy 
red  hair.  But  there  was  no  painter  there,  and  Eliza  was 
looking  at  the  gown.  She  walked  to  the  end  of  the  room, 
looking  backward  over  her  shoulder.     She  walked  up  the 


\ 


I        « 


I 


^/'f. 


306  WHAT  NECESS/TV  KNOWS  [hook  hi 

room  toward  the  mirror,  observing  the  moving  fokls  of  the 
skirt  as  she  walked.  She  went  aside,  out  of  tlie  range  of 
the  glass,  n.nd  came  into  it  again  to  observe  the  effect  of 
meeting  herself  as  though  by  chance,  or  rather,  of  meeting 
a  young  woman  habited  in  such  a  black  silk  gown,  for  it  was 
not  in  herself  precisely  that  Eliza  was  at  the  moment  inter- 
ested. She  did  not  smile  at  herself,  or  meet  her  own  eyes 
in  the  glass.  She  was  gravely  intent  upon  looking  as  well 
as  she  could,  not  upon  estimating  how  well  she  looked. 

The  examination  was  satisfactory.  Perhaps  a  woman 
more  habituated  to  silk  gowns  and  mantua-makers  would 
have  found  small  wrinkles  in  sleeve  or  shoulder;  but  Eliza 
was  pleased.  If  the  gown  was  not  perfect,  it  was  as  good  a 
one  as  she  was  in  the  habit  of  seeing,  even  upon  gala  occa- 
sions. And  she  had  no  intention  of  keeping  her  gown  for 
occasions;  her  intention  was  that  it  should  be  associated 
with  her  in  the  ordinary  mind  ot  the  place.  Now  that  she 
was  fortunate  enough  to  possess  silk  (and  she  was  deter- 
mined this  should  only  be  the  forerunner  of  a  succession  of 
such  gowns)  people  should  think  of  her  as  Miss  White,  who 
wore  silk  in  the  afternoons.  She  settled  this  as  she  saw 
how  well  the  material  became  her.  Then,  with  grave  care, 
she  arranged  a  veil  round  the  black  bonnet  she  wore,  and 
stood  putting  on  new  gloves  preparatory  to  leaving  the 
room.  Eliza  was  not  very  imaginative ;  but  had  she  been 
disposed  to  foresee  events,  much  as  she  might  have  harassed 
herself,  she  would  not  have  been  more  likely  to  hit  upon  the 
form  to  be  taken  by  the  retributive  fate  she  always  vaguely 
feared  than  are  the  poor  creatures  enslaved  by  fearful  im- 
aginations. 

The  door  opened,  and  Harkness  thrust  his  handsome  head 
into  the  room.  He  was  evidently  looking  for  her.  When 
he  saw  her  he  came  in  hastily,  shutting  the  door  and  stand- 
ing with  his  back  to  it,  as  if  he  did  not  care  to  enter  further. 

Eliza  had  not  seen  him  that  day.  After  what  had  hap- 
pened she  rather  dreaded  the  next  interview,  as  she  did  not 
know  what  he  might  find  to  say;  but  the  instant  she  saw 


CHAP.  l] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


2>o7 


ly 


lad 
len 

kot 


him,  she  perceived  that  it  was  something  more  decisive  tlian 
he  had  ever  shown  sign  of  before.  He  h)ok('d  tired,  and  at 
the  same  time  as  if  his  spirit  was  upwrought  within  him 
and  his  Avill  set  to  some  purpose. 

"I'm  real  glad  to  see  you,"  lie  said,  but  not  pleasantly. 
"I've  been  looking  for  you;  and  it's  just  as  well  for  you  I 
found  you  without  more  ado." 

"I'm  just  going  out,"  said  Eliza;  "I  can't  stay  now." 

"  You'll  just  stop  a  bit  where  you  are,  and  hear  what  I'm 
going  to  say." 

"I  can't,"  said  she,  angrily;  but  he  was  at  the  door,  and 
she  made  no  movement  towards  it. 

He  talked  right  on.  "I'm  going  away,"  he  said.  "I've 
packed  up  all  that  I  possess  here  in  this  place,  and  I'm  going 
to  depart  by  this  afternoon's  train.  No  one  much  knows  of 
this  intention.  I  take  it  you  won't  interfere,  so  I  don't  mind 
confiding  my  design  to  your  kind  and  sympathetic  breast." 

The  emphasis  he  laid  on  the  eulogy  was  evidently 
intended  for  bitter  sarcasm.  Anger  gave  her  unwonted 
glibness. 

"  I'll  ask  you  to  be  good  enough  to  pay  our  bill,  then. 
If  you're  making  off  because  you  can't  pay  your  other  debts 
it's  no  affair  of  mine." 

He  bowed  mockingly.  "  You  are  real  kind.  Can't  think 
how  much  obliged  I  am  for  your  tactful  reminder;  but  it 
don't  happen  to  be  my  financial  affairs  that  I  came  to  intro- 
dooce  to  your  notice."  He  stammered  a  moment,  as  if 
carried  rather  out  of  his  bearings  by  his  own  loquacity. 
"It's — it's  rather  your  finances  that  I  wish  to  enlarge 
•  upon." 

She  opposed  herself  to  him  in  cold  silence  that  would  not 
betray  a  gleam  of  curiosity. 

"You're  a  mighty  fine  young  lady,  upon  my  word!"  he 
observed,  running  his  eye  visibly  over  her  apparel.  "  Able 
to  work  for  yourself,  and  buy  silk  skirts,  and  owning  half 
a  bit  of  ground  that  people  are  beginning  to  think  will 
be  worth  something  considerable  when  they  get  to  mining 


3o8  WHA  T  NECESSITY  KNO  J I 'S  [book  hi 

there.  Oh,  you're  a  fine  one — what  with  your  qualities  and 
your  fortune !  " 

A  sudden  unbecoming  colour  came  with  tell-tale  vehe- 
mence over  her  cheek  and  brow. 

"Your  qualities  of  mind,  as  I've  remarked,  are  fine;  but 
the  qualities  of  your  heart,  my  dear,  are  finer  still.  I've 
been  making  love  to  you,  with  the  choicest  store  of  loving 
arts,  for  eight  long  months;  and  the  first  blush  I've  been 
enabled  to  raise  on  your  lovely  countenance  is  when  I  tell 
you  you've  more  money  than  you  looked  for!  You're  a 
tender-hearted  young  lady !  " 

"  The  only  train  I  ever  heard  of  on  Sunday  afternoon  goes 
pretty  soon,"  she  said;  and  yet  there  was  now  an  eager  look 
of  curiosity  in  her  eyes  that  belied  her  words. 

He  took  no  notice  of  her  warning,  but  resumed  now  with 
mock  apology.  "But  I'm  afraid  I'm  mistaken  in  the 
identity.  Sorry  to  disappoint  you,  but  the  estate  I  allude 
to  belongs  to  Miss  Cameron,  who  lived  near  a  locality  called 
Turrifs  Station.  Beg  pardon,  forgot  for  the  moment  your 
name  was  White,  and  that  you  know  nothing  about  that 
interesting  and  historic  spot." 

Perhaps  because  she  had  played  the  part  of  indifference 
so  long,  it  seemed  easiest  to  her,  even  in  her  present  con- 
fusion of  mind;  at  any  rate  she  remained  silent. 

"Pity  you  weren't  her,  isn't  it?"  He  showed  all  his 
white  teeth.  He  had  been  pale  at  first,  but  in  talking  the 
fine  dark  red  took  its  wonted  place  in  his  cheeks.  He  had 
tossed  back  his  loose  smoke-coloured  hair  with  a  nervous 
hand.  His  dark  beauty  never  showed  to  better  advantage 
as  he  stood  leaning  back  on  the  door.  "Pity  you  aren't 
her,  isn't  it?"  he  repeated,  smilingly. 

She  had  no  statuesque  pose,  but  she  had  assumed  a  look 
of  insensibility  almost  equal  to  that  of  stone. 

"Come  to  think  of  it,  even  if  you  were  her,  you'd  find  it 
hard  to  say  so  now;  so,  either  way,  I  reckon  you'll  have  to 
do  without  the  tin.  'T would  be  real  awkward  to  say  to  all 
your  respectable  friends  that  you'd  been  sailing  under  false 


CHAP.  l] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


309 


IS 

lie 

d 
.s 
;e 
I't 


lit 
bo 
111 


colours;  that  'White'  isn't  your  bona  Jide  cognomen;  that 
you'd  deserted  a  hcdpless  old  woman  to  come  away ;  and  as 
to  hoiv  you  left  your  home — the  sort  of  carnage  you  took  to, 
my  dear,  and  liow  you  got  over  the  waggoner  to  do  the  work 
of  a  sexton — Oh,  my,  fine  tale  for  Chellaston,  tliat!  No, 
my  dear  young  lady,  take  a  fatherly  word  of  admonition; 
your  best  plan  is  to  make  yourself  easy  without  the  tin." 

He  looked  at  her,  even  now,  with  more  curiosity  than 
malice  in  his  smiling  face.  A  power  of  complete  reserve 
was  so  foreign  to  his  own  nature  that  without  absolute 
proof  he  could  not  entirely  believe  it  in  her.  The  words 
he  was  speaking  might  have  been  the  utter  nonsense  to 
her  tliat  they  would  have  been  to  any  but  the  girl  wlio  was 
lost  from  the  Bates  and  Cameron  clearing  for  all  hint  she 
gave  of  understanding.  He  worked  on  his  supposition, 
however.     He  had  all  the  talking  to  himself. 

"You're  mighty  secret!  Now,  look  at  me.  I'm  no 
saint,  and  I've  come  here  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  that 
fact.  When  I  was  born,  Uncle  Sam  said  to  me,  'Cyril  P. 
Harkness,  you're  a  son  of  mine,  and  it's  yQur  vocation  to 
worship  the  God  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  and  the  Almighty 
Dollar';  and  I  piped  up,  'Right  you  are,  uncle.'  I  was 
only  a  baby  then."  He  added  these  last  words  reflectively, 
as  if  pondering  on  the  reminiscence,  and  gained  i-he  object 
of  his  foolery — that  she  spoke. 

"  If  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you're  fond  of  money,  that's 
no  news.  I've  had  sense  to  see  that.  If  you  thought  I'd  a 
mine  belonging  to  me  somewhere  that  accounts  for  the 
affection  you've  been  talking  of  so  much.  I  begin  to 
believe  in  it  now." 

She  meant  her  words  to  be  very  cutting,  but  she  had  not 
much  mobility  of  voice  or  glance;  and  moreover,  her  heart 
was  like  lead  within  her;  lier  words  fell  heavily. 

"Just  so,"  said  he,  bowing  as  if  to  compliment  her  dis- 
crimination. "You  may  believe  me,  for  I'm  just  explain- 
ing to  you  I'm  not  a  saint,  and  that  is  a  sentiment  you  may 
almost  always  take  stock  in  when  expressed  by  human  lips. 


310  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  hi 

I  was  real  sick  last  summer;  and  when  I  came  to  want  a 
holiday  I  thought  I'd  do  it  cheap,  so  when  I  got  wind  of  a 
walking  party — a  set  of  gentlemen  who  were  surveying — I 
got  them  to  let  me  go  along.  Camp  follower  I  was,  and 
'twas  first  rate  fun,  especially  as  I  was  on  the  scent  of 
what  they  were  looking  for.  So  then  we  came  on  asbestos 
in  one  part.  Don't  know  what  that  is,  my  dear?  Never 
mind  as  to  its  chemical  proportions;  there's  dollars  in  it. 
Then  we  dropped  down  on  tlie  house  of  the  gentleman  that 
owned  about  half  the  hill.  One  of  them  was  just  dead, 
and  he  had  a  daughter,  but  she  was  lost,  and  as  I  was 
always  mighty  fond  of  young  ladies,  I  looked  for  her.  Oh, 
you  may  believe,  I  looked,  till,  when  she  was  nowhere,  I 
half  thought  the  man  who  said  she  was  lost  had  been  fool- 
ing.   Well,  then,  I "  (he  stopped  and  drawled  teasingly) 

"  But  possibly  I  intrude.  Do  you  hanker  after  hearing  the 
remainder  of  this  history?" 

She  had  sat  down  by  the  centre  table  with  her  back  to 
him. 

"You  can  go.on,"  she  muttered. 

"Thanks  for  your  kind  permission.  I  haven't  got  much 
more  to  tell,  for  I  don't  know  to  this  mortal  miimte  whether 
I've  ever  found  that  young  lady  or  not;  but  I  have  my  sus- 
picions. Any  way,  that  day  away  we  went  across  the  lake, 
and  when  the  snow  drove  us  down  from  the  hills  the  day 
after,  the  folks  near  the  railroad  were  all  in  a  stew  about 
the  remains  of  Bates's  partner,  the  poppa  of  the  young 
lady.  His  remains,  having  come  there  for  burial,  and  not 
appearing  to  like  the  idea,  had  taken  the  liberty  of  stepping 
out  on  the  edge  of  the  evening,  and  hooking  it.  So  said  I, 
'What  if  that  young  lady  was  real  enterprising!  what  if 
she  got  the  waggoner  to  put  her  poppa  under  the  soil  of  the 
forest,  and  rode  on  herself,  grand  as  you  please,  in  his 
burial  casfce^/'  (That  poor  waggoner  drank  himself  to 
death  of  remorse,  but  that  was  nothing  to  her.)  The  cir- 
cumstances were  confusing,  and  the  accounts  given  by 
different  folks  were  confusing,  and,  what's  more,  'tisn't 


CHAP.  l] 


PVHAT  NEC  ESS /TV  KNOIVS 


3" 


ay 

DUt 
Lllg 
[lOt 

ing 

I, 

if 

lie 

his 

to 

ir- 

by 

n't 


easy  to  believe  in  a  sweet  girl  having  her  poppa  buried  quite 
secret;  most  young  ladies  is  too  delicate.  Still,  alter  a 
bit,  the  opinion  I've  mentioned  did  become  my  view  of  the 
situation;  and  I  said  to  myself  'Cyril,  good  dog;  here's 
your  vocation  quite  handy.  Find  tlie  young  lady,  find  her, 
good  fellow!  Ingratiate  yourself  in  her  eyes,  and  you've 
got,  not  only  an  asl  stos  mine,  but  a  wife  of  such  smart- 
ness and  enterprise  aS  rarely  falls  to  the  lot  of  a  rising 
young  man.'  I  didn't  blame  her  one  bit  for  the  part  she 
had  taken,  for  I'd  seen  the  beast  she'd  have  had  to  live 
with.  No  doubt  her  action  was  the  properest  she  could 
take.  And  I  thought  if  I  came  on  her  panting,  flying,  and 
offered  her  my  protection,  she'd  fall  down  and  adore  me. 
So,  to  make  a  long  tale  short,  I  stopped  a  bit  in  that 
locality,  hunting  for  her  quite  private  after  every  one  else 
had  given  np  hunting.  I  heard  of  a  daft  old  man  who'd 
got  about,  the  Lord  only  knows  how,  and  I  set  the  folks 
firmly  believing  that  he  was  old  Cameron.    Well,  if  he  was, 

then  the  girl  was  lost  and  dead;  but  if  he  icasn't well, 

I  twigged  it  she'd  got  on  the  railroad,  and,  by  being  real 
pleasant  to  all  the  car  men,  I  found  out,  quite  by  the  way 
and  private,  how  she  might  have  got  on,  and  where  any 
girl  had  got  off,  till  by  patience  and  perseverance  I  got  on 
your  track ;  and  I've  been  eight  months  trying  to  fathom 
your  deepness  and  win  your  affections.  The  more  fool  I! 
For  to  try  to  win  what  hasn't  any  more  existence  than  the 
pot  at  the  rainbow's  tail  is  clear  waste  of  time.  Deep  you 
are ;  but  you  haven't  got  any  of  the  commodity  of  affection 
in  your  breast." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  this  before,  like  an  honest 
man?"  she  asked;  "and  I'd  have  told  you  you  didn't  know 
as  much  as  you  thought  you  did."  Her  voice  was  a  little 
thick;  but  it  was  expressionless. 

"  I'm  not  green.  If  you'd  known  you  were  possessed  of 
money,  d'you  suppose  you'd  have  stayed  here  to  marry  me? 
Oh  no,  I  meant  to  get  that  little  ceremony  over  first,  and 
»pnng  the  mine  on  you  for  a  wedding  present  after.     The 


31  a  WHAT  IVEC ESS/TV  KATOIVS  [nooK  III 

reason  I've  told  you  now  is  tliat  I  wouldn't  marry  you  now, 
not  if  you'd  ten  millions  of  dollars  in  cash  in  your  pocket." 

"Why  not?  If  I'm  the  person  you  take  me  for,  I'm  as 
rich  and  clever  now."  She  still  sat  witli  her  back  to  him; 
her  voice  so  impassive  that  even  interroj^ation  was  hardly 
expressed  in  words  that  had  the  form  of  a  question. 

"  Yes,  and  you'd  be  richer  and  cleverer  now  with  me,  by 
a  long  chalk,  than  without  me!  If  you'd  me  to  say  who 
you  are,  and  that  I'd  known  it  all  along,  and  how  you'd 
got  here,  and  to  bring  up  the  railroad  fellows  (I've  got  all 
their  names)  who  noticed  you  to  bear  witness,  your  claim 
would  look  better  in  the  eyes  of  the  law.  'Twould  look  a 
deal  better  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  too,  to  come  as  Mrs. 
Cyril  P.  Harkness,  saying  you  had  been  Miss  Canujron, 
than  to  come  on  the  stage  as  Miss  White,  laying  claim  to 
another  name;  and  it  would  be  a  long  sight  more  comforta- 
ble to  have  me  to  support  and  cherish  you  at  such  a  time 
than  not  to  have  a  friend  in  the  world  except  the  folks 
whose  eyes  you've  pulled  the  wool  over,  and  who'll  be 
mighty  shocked.  Oh,  yes;  by  Jemima!  you'd  be  richer 
and  cleverer  now  with  me  than  without  me.  But  I'll  tell 
you  what  I've  come  here  to  say  " — his  manner  took  a  tone 
more  serious ;  his  mocking  smile  passed  away ;  he  seemed  to 
pause  to  arrest  his  own  lightness,  and  put  on  an  unwonted 
dignity.  "  I  tell  you,"  he  repeated  slowly,  "  what  I've  come 
here  to  say — I  do  despise  a  young  lady  without  a  heart.  Do 
you  know  what  occurred  last  night?  As  good  an  old  gentle- 
man as  ever  lived  was  brutally  felled  to  the  earth  and 
killed;  a  poor  man  who  was  never  worse  than  a  drunkard 
has  become  a  murderer,  and  there's  a  many  good  pious 
ladies  in  this  town  who'll  go  about  till  death's  day  jeered 
at  as  fools.  Would  you  like  to  be  marked  for  a  fool?  No, 
you  wouldn't  and  neither  will  they;  and  if  you're  the 
young  lady  I  take  you  for,  you  could  have  hindered  all  this, 
and  you  didn't.  /  brought  the  old  man  to  this  place ;  I  am 
to  blame  in  that,  my  own  self,  I  am ;  but  I  tell  you,  by  the 
salvation  of  my  soul,  when  I  stood  last  night  and  heard 


CHAP.  l] 


WHAT  NEC  ESS /TV  KNOWS 


3«3 


liim  pray,  and  saw  tlio.se  poor  ladies  with  their  white  garbs 
all  bedraggled,  around  him  ])raying,  1  said  to  myself, 
'Cyril,  you've  reason  to  call  on  the  roeks  and  hills  to  cover 
you,'  and  I  had  grace  to  bo  right  down  sorry.  I'm  right 
down  ashamed,  and  so  I'm  going  to  pull  up  stakes  and  go 
back  to  where  I  came  from;  and  I've  come  here  now  to  tell 
you  that  after  what  I've  seen  of  you  in  this  matter  I'd 
sooner  die  than  be  hitched  with  you.  You've  no  more 
heart  tlu'  i  my  old  shoe;  as  long  as  you  get  on  it's  all  one 
to  you  who  goes  to  the  devil.  You're  not  only  as  sharp 
as  I  took  you  for,  but  a  good  deal  sharper.  Go  ahead; 
you'll  get  rich  somehow;  you'll  get  grand;  but  I  want  you 
to  know  that,  though  I'm  pretty  tricky  myself,  and  'cute 
enough  to  have  thought  of  a  good  thing  and  followed  it  up 
pretty  far,  I've  got  a  heart;  and  I  do  despise  a  person  made 
of  stone.  I  was  real  fond  of  you,  for  you  far  exceeded  my 
expectations;  but  I'm  not  fond  of  you  now  one  bit.  If  you 
was  to  go  down  on  your  bended  knees  and  ask  me  to 
admire  you  now,  I  wouldn't." 

She  listened  to  all  the  sentence  he  pronounced  upon  her. 
When  he  had  finished  she  asked  a  question.  "  What  do 
you  mean  about  going  to  law  about  the  clearin'  ?  " 

"Your  worthy  friend,  Mr.  Bates,  has  arrived  in  this 
place  this  very  day.  He's  located  with  the  Principal, 
he  is." 

"He  isn't  here,"  she  replied  in  angry  «corn. 

"All  right.  Just  as  you  please.''^ 

"He  isn't  here,"  she  said  more  sulkily. 

"But/ieis." 

She  ignored  his  replies.  "What  do  you  mean  about 
going  to  law  about  the  land?" 

"Why,  I  haven't  got  much  time  left," — he  was  standing 
now  with  his  watch  in  his  hand — "  but  for  the  sake  of  old 
times  I'll  tell  you,  if  you  don't  see  through  that.  D'you 
suppose  Bates  isn't  long-headed!  He's  heard  about  Father 
Cameron  being  here,  and  knowing  the  old  man  couldn't 
give  an  account  of  himself,  he's  come  to  see  him  and  pre- 


3^4  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  iii 

tend  he's  your  father.  Of  course  he's  no  notion  of  you 
being  here.  He  swears  right  and  left  that  you  went  over 
the  hills  and  perished  in  the  snow;  and  he's  got  up  great 
mourning  and  lamenting,  so  I've  heard,  for  your  death. 
Oh,  Jemima!     Can't  you  see  through  that?" 

**Tell  me  what  you  mean,"  she  demanded,  haughtily. 
She  was  standing  again  now. 

"Why,  my  dear,  if  you  knew  a  bit  more  of  the  world 
you'd  know  that  it  meant  that  he  intends  to  pocket  all  the 
money  himself.  And,  what's  more,  he's  got  the  best  of  the 
situation;  for  you  left  him  of  your  own  accord,  my  dear, 
and  changed  your  name,  and  if  you  should  surprise  him 
now  by  putting  in  an  appearance  and  saying  you're  the  lost 
young  lady,  what's  to  hinder  him  saying  you're  not  you, 
and  keeping  the  tin?  I  don't  know  who's  to  swear  to  you, 
myself.  The  men  round  Turrifs  said  you  were  growing  so 
fast  that  between  one  time  and  another  they  wouldn't  know 
you.  Worst,  that  is,  of  living  in  out-of-the-way  parts — 
no  one  sees  you  often  enough  to  know  if  you're  you  or  if 
you're  not  you." 

"It  is  not  true,"  she  cried.  He  had  at  last  brought  the 
flash  to  her  eyes.  She  stood  before  him  palpitating  with 
passion.  "You  are  a  liar!"  she  said,  intensely.  "Mr. 
Bates  is  as  honest  as  " — words  failed  her — "  as — as  honest 
and  as  good  as  you  don't  even  know  how  to  think  of." 

He  was  like  a  necromancer  who,  although  triumphant  at 
haviig  truly  raised  a  spirit  by  his  incantations,  quails  mys- 
tified before  it. 

I  ■  "  Oh  wf  li,  since  you  feel  so  badly  about  it  I'll  not  say 

that  you  mayn't  outwit  him  if  you  put  in  your  claim.  You 
needn't  give  up  all  for  lost  if  he  does  try  to  face  it  out." 

"  Give  up  what  for  lost?  Do  you  think  I  care  about  this 
old  mine  so  much?  I  tell  you,  sooner  than  hear  a  tricky 
sharper  like  you  say  that  Mr.  Bates  is  as  cunning  as  you 
are,  I'd — I'd — "  She  did  not  say  more,  but  she  trembled 
with  passion.  "Go!"  she  concluded.  "If  you  say  I'm 
unfeeling,  you  say  a  thing  I  suppose  is  true  enough  j  but 


CHAP.  Il] 


WHAT  NEC  ESS  IT  y  KNOWS 


315 


you've  said  things  to  me  this  afternoon  that  are  not  true; 
and  if  there's  a  good  honest  man  in  this  world,  it's  Mr. 
Bates.     Sooner  than  not  believe  that  I'd — sooner  die." 

The  tears  had  welled  up  and  overflowed  her  eyes.  Her 
face  was  red  and  burning. 

"Say,  Eliza,"  he  said,  gently  enough.  He  was  more 
astonished  than  he  could  realise  or  express,  but  he  was 
really  troubled  to  see  her  cry. 

"Oh,  don't 'Eliza' me!  "  she  cried,  angrily.  "You  said 
you  were  going  to  go — go — go — I  tell  you,  go!  What  busi- 
ness is  it  of  yours,  I'd  like  to  know,  to  mention  Mr.  Bates 
to  me?    You've  no  business  with  either  him  or  me." 

"Upon  my  word!  I'll  take  my  gospel  oath  I've  said  no 
more  than  I  do  believe." 

"  I  dare  say  not.  You  don't  know  what  an  honest  man 
is,  so  how  could  you  believe  in  one?" 

"I've  a  real  soft  heart;  I  hate  to  see  you  cry,  Eliza." 

"Well,  Mr.  Bates  hasn't  a  soft  heart  at  all;  he's  as 
unkind  as  can  be;  but  he's  as  much  above  you,  with  all 
your  softness,  as  light  is  above  boot  blacking." 

She  was  not  good-looking  in  her  tears.  She  was  not 
modest  in  her  anger;  all  the  crude  rude  elements  of  her 
nature  broke  forth.  She  wrenched  the  door  open  although 
with  obstinate  strength  he  tried  to  keep  it  shut,  desiring 
stupidly  to  comfort  her.  She  cast  him  aside  as  a  rough 
man  might  push  a  boy.  When  she  was  making  her  way 
upstairs  he  heard  smothered  sounds  of  grief  and  rage 
escaping  from  her. 


CHAPTER   II. 


When  Eliza  had  been  in  her  own  room  for  about  half 
an  hour,  her  passion  had  subsided.  She  was  not  glad  of 
this ;  in  perverseness  she  would  have  recalled  the  tempest 
if  she  could,  but  she  knew  not  what  to  call  back  or  how  to 
call.     She  knew  no  more  what  had  disturbed  her  than  in 


H 


i 


316  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  hi 

times  of  earthquake  the  sea  water  knows  the  cause  of  its 
unwonted  surging.  She  sat  angry  and  miserable;  angry 
with  Harkness,  not  because  he  had  called  her  heartless — 
she  did  not  care  in  the  slightest  for  his  praise  or  blame — 
but  because  he  had  been  the  bearer  of  ill  tidings;  and  be- 
cause he  had  in  some  way  produced  in  her  the  physical  and 
mental  distress  of  angry  passion,  a  distress  felt  more  when 
passion  is  sabsiding.  She  ranked  it  as  ill  tidings  that  her 
father's  land  had  risen  in  value.  She  would  rather  that 
her  worldly  wisdom  in  leaving  it  had  been  proved  by  sub- 
sequent events  than  disproved,  as  now,  by  news  which 
raised  such  a  golden  possibility  before  her  ignorant  eyes, 
that  her  heart  was  rent  with  pangs  of  envy  and  covetous- 
ness,  while  her  pride  warred  at  the  very  thought  of  stoop- 
ing to  take  back  what  she  had  cast  away,  and  all  the  dis- 
closure that  must  ensue.  Above  all,  she  counted  it  ill 
tidings  that  Bates  was  reported  to  be  in  the  place.  She 
was  as  angry  with  him  now  as  on  the  day  she  had  left  him 
— more  angry — for  now  he  could  vaunt  new  prosperity  as 
an  additional  reason  why  she  had  been  wrong  to  go.  Why 
had  he  come  here  to  disturb  and  interrupt?  What  did  the 
story  about  Father  Cameron  matter  to  him?  She  felt  like 
a  hunted  stag  at  bay ;  she  only  desired  strength  and  op^jor- 
tunity  to  trample  the  hvnter. 

Partly  because  she  felt  more  able  to  deal  with  others 
than  with  the  dull  angry  misery  of  her  own  heart,  partly 
because  she  was  a  creature  of  custom,  disliking  to  turn 
from  what  she  had  set  out  to  do,  she  found  herself,  after 
about  an  hour  of  solitude,  re-arranging  her  street  toilet  to 
walk  to  Mrs.  Rexford's  house. 

When  she  had  made  her  way  down  to  the  lower  flat  of 
the  hotel  she  found  Harkness  had  spoken  the  truth  in  say- 
ing he  intended  to  go,  for  he  was  gone.  The  men  in  the 
cool  shaded  bar-room  were  talking  about  it.  Mr.  Hutch- 
ins  mentioned  it  to  her  through  the  door.  He  sat  in  his 
big  chair,  his  crutches  leaning  again.st  him. 

"Packed  up;  paid  his  bill;  gone  clea,r  off — did  you  know?" 


CHAP.  Il] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


317 


"Yes,  I  knew,"  said  Eliza,  although  she  had  not  known 
till  that  moment. 

"Said  he  was  so  cut  up,  and  that  he  wouldn't  stay  to 
give  evidence  against  poor  Job,  or  be  hauled  before  the 
coroner  to  be  cross-questioned  about  the  old  man.  He's  a 
sharp  'un;  packed  up  in  less  time  than  it  takes  most  men 
to  turn  round — adjustable  chair  and  all." 

Eliza  had  come  to  the  threshold  of  the  bar-room  door  to 
hear  all  he  said.  The  suushine  of  a  perfect  summer  day 
fell  on  the  verandah  just  outside,  and  light  airs  came  through 
the  outer  door  and  fanned  her,  but  in  here  the  sweet  air  was 
tarnished  with  smoke  from  the  cigars  of  one  or  two  loiterers. 

Two  men  of  the  village  were  sitting  with  their  hats  on. 
As  they  said  "  Good-day  "  to  Eliza,  they  did  not  rise  or  take 
off  their  hats,  not  because  they  did  not  feel  towards  her  as 
a  man  would  who  would  give  this  civility,  but  because  they 
were  not  in  the  habit  of  expressing  their  feelings  in  that 
way.  Another  transient  caller  was  old  Dr.  Nash,  and  he, 
looking  at  Eliza,  recognised  in  a  dull  way  something  in  her 
appearance  which  made  him  think  her  a  finer  woman  than 
he  had  formerly  supposed,  and,  pulling  off  his  hat,  he  made 
her  a  stiff  bow. 

Eliza  spoke  only  to  Mr.  Hutchins :  "  I  shall  be  gone  about 
four  hours;  I  am  going  to  the  Kexfords  to  tea.  You'd 
better  look  into  the  dining-room  once  or  twice  v/hen 
supper's  on." 

"  All  right,"  said  he,  adding,  when  the  clock  had  had  time 
to  tick  once,  "Miss  White." 

And  the  reason  he  affixed  her  name  to  his  promise  was  the 
same  that  had  compelled  Dr.  Nash's  bow — a  sense  of  her 
importance  growing  upon  him;  but  the  hotel-keeper  ob- 
served, what  the  old  doctor  did  not,  that  the  gown  was  silk. 

"  Fine  woman  that,  sir,"  he  remarked,  when  she  was  gone, 
to  anyone  who  might  wish  to  receive  the  statement. 

"  Well,"  said  one  of  the  men,  "I  should  just  think  it." 

"She  seems,"  said  Dr.  Nash,  stiffly,  "to  be  a  good  girl 
and  a  clever  one." 


3i8  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  m 

'-She  isn't  just  now  what  I'd  call  a  gurl,"  said  the  man 
who  had  answered  first.  "  She's  young,  I  know ;  but  now, 
if  you  see  her  walking  about  the  dining-room,  she's  more 
like  a  queen  than  a  gurl." 

Without  inquiring  into  the  nature  of  this  distinction  Dr. 
Nash  got  into  his  buggy.  As  he  drove  down  the  street 
under  the  arching  elm  trees  he  soon  passed  Eliza  on  her  way 
to  the  Kexfords,  and  again  he  lifted  his  hat.  Eliza,  with 
grave  propriety,  returned  the  salutation. 

Th(  big  hawthorn  tree  at  the  beginning  of  Captain  Kex- 
ford's  fence  was  thickly  bedecked  with  pale  scarlet  haws. 
Eliza  opened  the  gate  beside  it  and  turned  up  the  cart  road, 
walking  on  its  grassy  edge,  concealed  from  the  house  by 
ragged  lilac  trees.  She  preferred  this  to-day  to  the  open 
path  leading  to  the  central  door.  This  road  brought  her  to 
the  end  of  the  long  front  verandah.  Here  she  perceived 
voices  from  the  sitting-room,  and,  listening,  thought  she 
heard  Principal  Trenholme  talking.  She  went  on  past  the 
gable  of  the  house  into  the  yard,  a  sloping  straggling  bit  of 
ground,  enclosed  on  three  sides  by  the  house  and  its  addi- 
tions of  dairies  and  stables,  and  on  the  fourth  side  bounded 
by  the  river.  For  once  the  place  seemed  deserted  by  the 
children.  A  birch,  the  only  tree  in  the  enclosure,  cast  flut- 
tering shadow  on  the  closely  cropped  sod.  Sunlight  sparkled 
on  the  river  and  on  the  row  of  tin  milk  pans  set  out  near 
the  kitchen  door.  To  this  door  Eliza  went  slowly,  fanning 
herself  with  her  handkerchief,  for  the  walk  had  been  warm. 
She  saw  Miss  Rexford  was  in  the  kitchen  alone,  attending 
to  some  light  cookery. 

"I  heard  company  in  the  front  room,  so  I  came  round 
here  till  they  were  gone." 

"You  are  not  usually  shy,"  said  Sophia. 

Eliza  sat  down  on  a  chair  by  the  wall.  With  the  door 
wide  open  the  yard  seemed  a  part  of  the  kitchen.  It  was  a 
pleasant  place.  The  birch  tree  flicked  its  shadow  as  far  as 
the  much-worn  wooden  doorstep. 

"I  was  very  sorry  to  hear  about  last  night,  Miss  Sophia," 


CHAP.  II] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


319 


said  Eliza,  sincerely,  meaning  tliat  she  was  sorry  on  Wini- 
fred's account  more  immediately. 

"Yes,"  said  Sophia,  acknowledging  that  there  was  reason 
for  such  sympathy. 

"Is  that  Principal  Trenholme  talking?"  asked  Eliza. 
The  talk  in  the  sitting-room  came  through  the  loose  door, 
and  a  doubt  suddenly  occurred  to  her. 

"No;  it's  his  brother,"  said  Sophia. 

"The  voices  are  alike." 

"Yes;  but  the  two  men  don't  seem  to  be  much  alike." 

"I  didn't  know  he  had  a  brother." 
.    "Didn't  you?     He  has  just  come." 

Sophia  was  taking  tea-cakes  from  the  oven.  Eliza  leaned 
her  head  against  the  wall;  she  felt  warm  and  oppressed. 
One  of  the  smaller  children  opened  the  sitting-room  door 
just  then  and  came  into  the  kitchen.  The  child  wore  a 
very  clean  pinafore  in  token  of  the  day.  She  came  and  sat 
on  Eliza's  knee.  The  door  was  left  ajar;  instead  of  stray 
words  and  unintelligible  sentences,  all  the  talk  of  the  sitting- 
room  was  now  the  common  property  of  those  in  the  kitchen. 

In  beginning  to  hear  a  conversation  already  in  full  flow, 
it  is  a  few  moments  before  the  interchange  of  remarks  and 
interrogations  makes  sense  to  us.  Eliza  only  came  to 
understand  what  was  being  talked  of  when  the  visitor  said 
"  No,  I'm  afraid  there's  no  doubt  about  the  poor  girl's  death. 
After  there  had  been  two  or  three  snow-storms  there  was 
evidently  no  use  in  looking  for  her  any  more;  but  even 
then,  I  think  it  was  months  before  he  gave  up  hopes  of  her 
return.  Night  after  night  he  used  to  hoist  a  pine-wood 
torch,  thinking  she  might  have  fallen  in  with  Indians  and 
be  still  alive  and  trying  to  make  her  way  back.  The  fact 
of  the  matter  was,  Mrs.  Rexford,  Bates  loved  her,  and  he 
simply  could  not  give  her  up  for  dead." 

The  young  man  had  as  many  emphasised  words  in  his 
speech  as  a  girl  might  have  had,  yet  his  talk  did  not  give 
the  impression  of  easily  expressed  feeling. 

"Ah,  it  was  very  sad." 


^10  ////.//'  .V7(  7  ;VA7/)'  AX(}irS  luooKiii 

"  VoM,  I  iliiln't  know  1  immiM  liiive  nnndtMl  so  imicli  ii  Miiii^ 
that  »li«l  not  alTcM't  u\o  |uM\sonally.  'V\\v\\  whoti  \\v  liail  jjivoii 
\\\\  iiopo  oT  liiulini;  1\»m'  living;,  lu»  was  olV,  when  the  H|>rin^' 
oatui',  oviM'vwhtM'o  ovor  ll»o  woods,  snupoMini;;  that,  il'  nIio  liad 
luM'isluMl,  luM'  l»o»ly  »MMiM  lu>  ItMUul  wlu'ii  tlio  SHOW  was  >j;out». 
1  oouMn't  ludp  ludpinv;:  him  t.o  soarch  Iho  |ila<'(>  lor  mih<H 
ro\uul.  It's  a  iuw  yhwo  in  spriMi;',  too;  luit.  I  doii'l,  know 
Avhon  ot»o  oaros  hvss  ahont  spvinj;;  lh>wiM\s  than  w  hon  on(>'M 
\va\(  o\\H\'{\n^  tho  doad  hody  ol"  a  ^•i^l  to  tnrn  np  in  oviM'y 
lu>no\v  wlioro  th<\v  fjrow  thickost..  I'vo  h(<aliMi  down  a 
\vhoh>  valh»v  of  trillinni  lilios  inst  to  ho  snro  sh«>  liad  nt>t. 
falhMi  hotwoon  th(>  rooks  tht»y  j;row  on.  And  if  I  I'clt.  that. 
way,  YOU  may  supposo  ii  was  had  tM»on,«:li  for  Hali's." 

**llo  sotMns  to  havo  had  a  ftMdini;;  hoart." 

"0\\  wolh  ho  had  hronvjht.  tho  i^'irl  n|>.  1  (h)n't.  think  1m^ 
oavod  iov  anythiuij  ii»  tho  worhl  hnt  hi>r." 

**  And  Or.  Nash  saw  Mr.  l>at«>s  as  soon  as  yon  ^ot  hint  to 
Yonr  hri>thor's?  It"  Or.  Nash  thinks  hi'Ml  pnll  t.hn)u,L,d\  I 
shinihl  think  ymi  nmst  fool  hopoinl." 

•*  Vos — woll,  I  h>t't  liini  on  tho  sofa,      Ho's  ratluu*  bad." 

Thoiv  wa.s  a  pauso,  as  if  Mrs.  Koxfoni  niiiifht.  ho  si^h- 
inj:  and  shaking  hor  hoad  ovor  st>nu^  snlTorini;  boforo  do- 
sorilvd. 

Sophia  hail  v^^no  to  tho  milk  otdlar  to  got  oroam  for  toa. 
Eli/.a  followod  hor  owt  into  tho  yard. 

*•  1  had  Ivttor  iu>t  stay  to  toa,"  said  sho,  '*ti\or(^  won't  bo 
rtH"»m." 

"Oh  yos,  thoro  will;  1  have  a  hoadacho,  so  I'm  not  going 
into  tho  dining-room." 

"Then  I  won't  sfciy.  I  would  vathor  oomo  somo  night 
when  vou  an^  there." 

"  How  handsome  your  dross  looks !  You  are  getting  quite 
a  fine  lady,  Eliza." 

"My  dress  I  "  said  Eliza,  looking  down  at  it.  It  seemed 
to  her  so  long  sinee  she  thought  of  it.  "Yes,"  she  con- 
tinued, stroking  it,  "it  looks  very  nicely,  doesn't  it?" 

Sophia  assented  heartily.     She  liked  the  girl's  choice  of 


CIIAI'.  Ill] 


//'//.//•  A7;(  'A'.s'.sv /  r  h\\'( )irs 


%ii 


cIoMm^m;  Mh'.v  m^'iiu'd  l.o  iniiiovn  Imm'  Iroiii,  uiiil  h<i|,  lior  i'ur 
iil)()Vi>,  Mi(<  rutiiiiioiirr  prujiln  who  i r(<(|iiciil,(<(|  Mm  liot.cO. 

"  ^'(M^l'^'  very  tircMl,  Minn  S(»|)lii;i,  I  ciiii  Mm;  iuhI  II.'m  no 
wonder  iil'ltM'  IiimI,  nifjlil..  H.'h  no  fun  nl-iyin),;  l,o  nielli,,  jor 
wp  all  loci  (lull  iiImmiI>  wlial.'ii  liii.|>|i('nri|;   I'll  f^o  now." 

lOli/ii  wnil.  <|iiit't,ly  down  Mm  Iiiim^  !i,K!iiii>  in  idiadow  of  \\n\ 
\\\'M\  li<>d|.;<<,  iind  Irl,  liciMidl'  out  ol'  Mid  vvoodm  K''d'<'i  I'lit  hIm; 
did  not  return  t(»  Mm^  villuKn.  She  looked  down  the  road 
\\\K\  other  way,  nKS'iHuriiifr  with  Ikm'  <\y(^H  tin*  diHtanee  to  the 
ro(d' (>r 'rrenlioline'H  hoiiH(^  She  walked  in  that  diteetion, 
and  when  Hlie  (^anie  to  < /attain  l^exlonl'M  jtaHtnro  field,  Hhe 
l^'ot  throuKh  the  Ihh'h  and  (UohhccI  it  to  ji.  Hinall  wo(»d  that  lay 
JHdiind.  lionj.,'  golden  HtripM  of  li^'ht  lay  iiihwart  the  grawH 
between  (doii^'ated  HliadcH  (MHt  hy  v.owh  a,nd  hiiHlie.H.  Tim 
Hiihliath  »piiet  wan  (!vei\y  wln^-e.  All  the  eowH  in  the  jKiHture 
came  towards  her,  for  it  was  milking  time,  and  anyone  who 
eame  HnKK''''^*'*"^  ^'^  them  the  luxury  of  that  proecjHH.  Sr^iie 
followed  her  in  hIow  and  dnhiouH  i'iiHliion;  Hoine  stopped 
Ixd'on^  her  on  the  path.  iOli/a  did  not  evfMi  look  at  them, 
and  when  .she  went  in  amon^'  the  yu\\\\\r  fir  trees  they  hdt 
her  a:lon(\ 

It  was  not  a  thick  wood;  tlin  cvcniing  sun  shone  frecrly 
betwiU'ii  th(!  (dumps  of  yonii}.,'  spruec;.  In  an  opcin  )^dade  an 
elm  tre(^  stood,  stnitcdiiii}^  out  branches  S(!nsitiv(!  to  each 
breath  of  air,  golden  in  the  slant  sunlight  above  the  low 
dark  firs.  The  roots  of  this  tree  wer(!  raised  and  dry. 
Kliza  sat  down  on  tluun.  She  (lonld  see  betwecni  tlm  young 
trees  out  to  tlu^  sid(!  of  tlm  (college;  hous(!S  and  their  exit  to 
the  road.  She  could  see  th(5  road  too:  it  was  tliis  slie 
watched. 


to 
id 


CHAPTER   III. 

Eliza  sat  still  in  her  rough  woodland  chamber  till  the 
stray  sunbeams  had  left  its  floor  of  moss  and  i>layed  only 
through  the  high  open  windows  in  the  elm  bough  roof. 
She  had  seen  the  cows  milked,  and  now  heard  the  church 


I(  I    I.I    ■«»i.nHyi,,ia 


f 


322  WHAT  NEC  ESS  I  TV  KNOIVS  [book  hi 

bells  ring.  She  looked  intently  through  the  fissures  of  the 
spruce  shrub  walls  till  at  length  she  saw  a  light  carriage 
drive  away  from  the  college  grounds  with  the  clergyman 
and  his  brother  in  it.  She  knew  now  that  their  house  would 
be  left  almost  empty.  After  waiting  till  the  last  church- 
going  gig  had  passed  on  the  road  and  the  bells  had  stopped, 
she  went  into  the  college  grounds  by  a  back  way,  and  on  to 
the  front  of  Trenholme's  house. 

As  was  common  in  the  place,  the  front  door  yielded  when 
the  handle  was  turned.  Eliza  had  no  wish  to  summon  the 
housekeeper.  She  stood  in  the  inner  hall  and  listened,  that 
she  might  hear  what  rooms  had  inmates.  From  the  kitchen 
came  occasional  clinking  of  cups  and  plates;  the  house- 
keeper had  evidently  not  swerved  from  her  regular  work. 
With  ears  preternaturally  acute,  Eliza  hearkened  to  the 
silence  in  the  other  rooms  till  some  slight  sound,  she  could 
hardly  tell  of  what,  led  her  upstairs  to  a  certain  door.  She 
did  not  knock ;  she  had  no  power  to  stand  there  waiting  for 
a  response;  the  primitive  manners  of  the  log  house  in  which 
she  had  lived  so  long  were  upon  her.  She  entered  the  room 
abruptly,  roughly,  as  she  would  have  entered  the  log  house 
door. 

In  a  long  chair  lay  the  man  she  sought.  He  was  dressed  in 
common  ill-fitting  clothes ;  he  lay  as  only  the  very  weak  lie, 
head  and  limbs  visibly  resting  on  the  support  beneath  them. 

She  crossed  her  arms  and  stood  there,  fierce  and  defiant. 
She  was  conscious  of  the  dignity  of  her  pose,  of  her  im- 
proved apj^earance  and  of  her  fine  clothes ;  the  consciousness 
formed  part  of  her  defiance.  But  he  did  not  even  see  her 
mood,  just  as,  manlike,  he  did  not  see  her  dress.  All  that 
he  did  see  was  that  here,  in  actual  life  before  him,  was  the 
girl  he  had  lost.  In  his  weakness  he  bestirred  himself  with 
a  cry  of  fond  wondering  joy — "Sissy!  " 

"Yes,  Mr.  Bates,  I'm  here." 

Some  power  came  to  him,  for  he  sat  erect,  awed  and 
reverent  before  this  sudden  delight  that  his  eyes  were 
drinking  in.     "  Are  you  safe,  Sissy?  "  he  whispered. 


CHAP.  Ill] 


WHAT  NKCESS/TV  KIVOIVS 


323 


m 

jie, 
Im. 

it. 
im- 

5SS 

tier 
lat 
:he 
lith 


Lnd 
lere 


"Yes,"  she  replied,  scornfully,  "  I've  been  quite  safe  ever 
since  I  got  away  from  you,  Mr.  Bates.  I've  taken  care  of 
myself,  so  I'm  quite  safe  and  getting  on  finely;  but  I'd  get 
on  better  if  my  feet  weren't  tied  in  a  sack  because  of  the 
things  you  made  me  do — you  made  me  do  it,  you  know  you 
did."  She  challenged  his  self-conviction  with  fierce  in- 
tensity. "  It  was  you  made  me  go  off  and  leave  your  aunt 
before  you'd  got  any  one  else  to  take  care  of  her;  it  was  you 
who  made  me  take  her  money  because  you'd  give  me  none 
that  was  lawfully  my  own;  it  was  you  that  made  me  run 
away  in  a  way  that  wouldn't  seem  very  nice  if  any  one 
knew,  and  do  things  they  wouldn't  think  very  nice,  and — 
and"  (she  was  incoherent  in  her  passion)  "you  made  me 
run  out  in  the  woods  alone,  till  I  could  get  a  train,  and  I 
was  so  frightened  of  you  coming,  and  finding  me,  and  telling, 
that  I  had  to  give  another  name;  and  now,  when  I'm  getting 
on  in  the  world,  I  have  to  keep  hiding  all  this  at  every 
turn  because  people  wouldn't  think  it  very  pretty  conduct. 
They'd  think  it  was  queer  and  get  up  a  grand  talk.  So  I've 
told  lies  and  changed  my  name,  and  it's  you  that  made  me, 
Mr.  Bates." 

He  only  took  in  a  small  part  of  the  meaning  of  the  words 
she  poured  upon  him  so  quickly,  but  he  could  no  longer  be 
oblivious  to  her  rage.  His  joy  in  seeing  her  did  not  sub- 
side; he  was  panting  for  breath  with  the  excitement  of  it, 
and  his  eyes  gloated  upon  her;  for  his  delight  in  her  life 
and  safety  was  something  wholly  apart  from  any  thought  of 
himself,  from  the  pain  her  renewed  anger  must  now  add  to 
the  long-accustomed  pain  of  his  own  contrition. 

"But  how,"  he  whispered,  wondering,  "how  did  you  get 
over  the  hills  ?     How  ? " 

"Just  how  and  when  I  could.  'Twasn't  much  choice 
that  you  left  me,  Mr.  Bates.  It  signifies  very  little 
now  how  I  got  here.  I  am  here.  You've  come  after 
the  old  man  that's  dead,  I  suppose.  You  might  have 
saved  yourself  the  trouble.  He  isn't  father,  if  thaVs  what 
you  thought." 


324 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  III 


► 


He  did  not  even  hear  the  last  part  of  her  speech.  He 
grasped  at  the  breath  that  seemed  trying  to  elude  him. 

"  You  went  out  into  the  woods  alone,"  he  said,  pityingly. 
He  was  so  accustomed  to  give  her  pity  for  this  that  it  came 
easily.  "You — you  mean  over  our  hills  to  the  back  of 
the " 

"No,  I  don't.  I  wasn't  such  a  silly  as  to  go  and  die  in 
the  hills.  I  got  across  the  lake,  and  I'm  here  now — that's 
the  main  thing,  and  I  want  to  know  why  you're  here,  and 
what  you're  going  to  do." 

Her  tone  was  brutal.  It  was,  though  he  could  not  know 
it,  the  half  hysterical  reaction  from  that  mysterious  burst 
of  feeling  that  had  made  her  defend  him  so  fiercely  against 
the  American's  evil  imputation. 

She  was  not  sufficiently  accustomed  to  ill  health  to  have 
a  quick  eye  for  it ;  but  she  began  now  to  see  how  very  ill  he 
looked.  The  hair  upon  his  face  and  head  was  damp  and 
matted;  his  face  was  sunken,  weather-browned,  but  blood- 
less in  the  colouring.  His  body  seemed  struggling  for 
breath  without  aid  from  his  will,  for  she  saw  he  was  think- 
ing only  of  her.  His  intense  preoccupation  in  her  half 
fascinated,  half  discomforted  her,  the  more  so  because  of 
the  feverish  lustre  of  his  eye. 

"I'm  sorry  you're  so  ill,  Mr.  Bates,"  she  said,  coldly; 
"you'd  better  lie  down." 

"Never  mind  about  me,"  he  whispered,  eagerly,  and 
feebly  moved  upon  the  seat  to  get  a  little  nearer  her. 
"  Never  mind  about  me ;  but  tell  me.  Sissy,  have  you  been 
a  good  girl  since  you  got  off  like  this?  You're  safe  and 
well — have  you  been  good?" 

"  I  took  your  aunt's  money,  if  you  mean  that,  but  I  left 
you  my  half  of  things  for  it;  and  anyway,  it  was  you  who 
made  me  do  it." 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  assented,  " 'twas  my  doing;  the  sin  of  all 
you  did  then  lies  at  my  door.  But  since  then.  Sissy?" 
His  look,  his  whole  attitude,  were  an  eager  question,  but 
she  looked  at  him  scornfully. 


CHAP.  Ill] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


325 


"Of  course  I've  been  good.  I  go  to  churoh  and  say  my 
prayers,  and  every  one  respects  nie.  I  worked  first  in  a 
family,  but  I  didn't  let  them  eall  me  a  servant.  Then  I 
got  a  place  in  the  Grand  Hotel.  Old  Mr.  Ilutehins  had  got 
lame,  so  he  couldn't  see  after  things,  and  I  could.  I've 
done  it  now  for  six  months,  and  it's  a  different  house.  I 
always  do  everything  I  do  well,  so  we've  made  money  this 
summer.  I'm  thinking  of  making  Mr.  Hutchins  take  me 
into  partnership;  he'd  rather  do  it  tlian  lose  me.  I'm  well 
thought  of,  Mr.  Bates,  by  everybody,  and  I'm  going  to  get 
rich." 

"Ilich,"  h^  echoed,  quietly.  He  looked  now,  his  mind 
drawn  by  hers,  at  her  fine  clothes,  and  at  the  luxuriant 
red  hair  that  was  arranged  with  artificial  display.  The 
painfulness  of  his  breath  and  his  weakness  returned  now 
within  his  range  of  feeling. 

Without  having  expected  to  absorb  his  mind  or  knowing 
that  she  cared  to  do  so,  she  still  felt  that  instant  that 
something  was  lost  to  her.  The  whole  stream  of  his  life, 
that  had  been  hers  since  she  had  entered  the  room,  was  no 
longer  all  for  her.  She  pressed  on  quietly  to  the  business 
she  had  with  him,  fearing  to  lose  a  further  chance. 

"  Look  here,  Mr.  B  tes !  It's  not  more  than  a  few  hours 
since  I  heard  you  were  here,  so  I've  come  to  tell  you  that 
I'm  alive  and  all  right,  and  all  that  I've  done  that  wasn't 
very  nice  was  your  fault;  but,  look  here,  I've  something 
else  to  say:  I  don't  know  why  you've  come  here  to  see  this 
old  preacher,  or  who  he  is,  or  what  you  have  to  do  with 
him;  but  it  would  be  cruel  and  mean  of  you  now,  after 
driving  me  to  do  what  I  did,  to  tell  the  people  here  about 
it,  and  that  my  name  isn't  White,  you  know.  I've  very 
nice  friends  here,  who'd  be  shocked,  and  it  would  do  me 
harm.  I'm  not  going  to  accuse  you  to  people  of  what 
you've  done.  I'm  sorry  you're  ill,  and  that  you've  had  all 
the  trouble  of  hunting  for  me,  and  all  that;  but  I've  come 
to  ask  you  now  to  keep  quiet  and  not  say  who  I  am." 

He  drew  great  sighs,  as  a  wounded  animal  draws  its 


326  IVNAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [hook  in 

broatli,  but  he  was  not  noticing  the  pliysical  pain  of  breath- 
ing, lie  did  not  catch  at  breath  as  eagerly  as  lie  was  trying 
to  catch  at  this  new  idea,  this  new  Sissy,  with  a  charac- 
ter and  history  so  different  from  what  he  had  siipjiosed. 
His  was  not  a  mind  that  took  rational  account  of  the  differ- 
ences between  characters,  yet  he  began  to  realise  now  that 
the  girl  who  had  made  her  own  way,  as  this  one  had,  was 
not  the  same  as  the  girl  he  had  imagined  wandering  help- 
lessly among  pathless  hills,  and  dying  feebly  there. 

She  still  looked  at  him  as  if  demanding  an  answer  to  her 
request,  looked  at  him  curiously  too,  trying  to  estimate 
how  ill  he  Moas.  He  did  not  speak,  and  she,  although  she 
did  not  at  all  fathom  his  feeling,  knew  instinctively  that 
some  influence  she  had  had  over  him  was  lessened. 

"  Of  course  you  can  spoil  my  life  if  you  like,  Mr.  Bates, 
but  I've  come  to  ask  you  not.  Someone's  told  me  there's  a 
mine  found  on  our  clearin' — well,  when  I  took  your  aunt's 
gold  pieces  I  meant  to  leave  you  the  land  for  them.  I'm 
too  proud  to  go  back  on  that  now,  far  too  proud;  you 
can  keep  the  money  if  you  want  to,  or  you  can  give  me 
some  of  it  if  you  wmit  to.  I'd  like  to  be  rich  better 
than  anything,  but  I'd  rather  be  poor  as  a  church  mouse, 
and  free  to  get  on  my  own  way,  than  have  you  to  say  what 
I  ought  to  do  every  touch  and  turn,  thinking  I'd  only  be 
good  and  sensible  so  long  as  I  did  what  you  told  me" 
(there  was  derision  in  her  voice).  "But  now,  as  I  say, 
you  have  the  chance  to  make  me  miserable  if  you  choose ; 
but  I've  come  to  ask  you  not  to,  although  if  you  do,  I  dare 
say  I  can  live  it  down." 

He  looked  at  her  bewildered.  A  few  moments  since  and 
all  the  joy  bells  of  his  life  had  been  a-chime;  they  were 
still  ringing,  but  jangling  confusedly  out  of  tune,  and — 
now  she  was  asking  him  to  conceal  the  cause  of  his  joy, 
that  he  had  found  her.  He  could  not  understand  fully; 
his  mind  would  not  clear  itself. 

"I  won't  do  anything  to  make  you  miserable,  Sissy,"  he 
said,  faintly. 


CHAP.  IV]  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  337 

*•  ifou  won't  t(;ll  that  you've  seen  nie,  or  who  I  am,  or 
anything?"  she  insisted,  lialf  pleading,  lialf  threatening. 

He  turned  his  face  from  her  to  hich^  the  ghastly  faintness 
that  was  coming  over  him.  "  1 — I  oughtn't  to  have  tried 
to  keep  you,  when  I  did,"  he  said. 

"No,  you  oughtn't  to,"  she  assented,  quickly. 

"  And  I  won't  speak  of  you  now,  if  that's  what  you  want." 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  wondering  what  had  made  him 
turn  his  back  to  her.  "  You  aren't  very  ill,  are  you,  Mr. 
Bates?" 

"No — you — I  only  can't  get  my  breath.  You'd  better 
go,  perhaps." 

"Yes,  I  think  I  had,"  she  replied. 

And  she  went. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


There  are  many  difficulties  in  this  world  which,  if  we 
refuse  to  submit  to  them,  will  in  turn  be  subdued  by  us, 
but  a  sprained  ankle  is  not  one  of  them.  Robert  Tren- 
holme,  having  climbed  a  hill  after  he  had  twisted  his  foot, 
and  having,  contrary  to  all  advice,  used  it  to  some  extent 
the  next  day,  was  now  fairly  conquered  by  the  sprain  and 
destined  to  be  held  by  this  foot  for  many  long  days.  He 
explained  to  his  brother  who  the  lady  was  whom  he  had 
taken  up  the  hill,  why  he  himself  had  first  happened  to  be 
with  her,  and  that  he  had  slipped  with  one  foot  in  a  road- 
side ditch,  and,  thinking  to  catch  her  up,  had  run  across  a 
field  and  so  missed  the  lane  in  the  darkness.  This  was 
told  in  the  meagre,  prosaic  way  that  left  no  hint  of  there 
being  more  to  tell. 

"What  is  she  like?"  asked  Alec,  for  he  had  confessed 
that  he  had  talked  to  the  lady. 

"Like?"  repeated  Robert,  at  a  loss;  "I  think  she  must 
be  like  her  own  mother,  for  she  is  like  none  of  the  other 
Rexfords." 


f7^ 

11 


\ 


328  tV//AT  N'ECESS/TV  kJVOlVS  [book  HI 

"All  the  rfist  of  the  family  are  good-looking." 

"Yes,"  said  Kobert  dreamily. 

So  Alec  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  Kobert  did  not 
consider  Miss  Rexford  good-looking.  He  did  not  tell  any- 
thing more  about  her  or  ask  anything  more.  He  saw  no 
reason  for  insulting  Robert  by  saying  iie  had  at  first  over- 
heard her  conversation,  and  that  it  had  been  continued  to 
him  after  she  had  mistaken  one  for  the  other.  He  won- 
dered over  those  of  her  remarks  which  he  remembered,  and 
his  family  pride  was  hurt  by  them.  He  did  not  conceive 
that  Robert  had  been  much  hurt,  simply  because  he  be- 
trayed no  sign  of  injured  feeling.  Younger  members  of  a 
family  often  long  retain  a  curiously  lofty  conception  of 
their  elders,  because  in  childhood  they  have  looked  upon 
them  as  embodiments  of  age  and  wisdom.  Alec,  in  loose 
fashion  of  thought,  supposed  Robert  to  be  too  much  occu- 
pied by  more  important  affairs  to  pay  heed  to  a  woman's 
opinion  of  him,  but  he  cherished  a  dream  of  some  day  ex- 
plaining to  Miss  Rexford  that  she  was  mistaken  in  his 
l3rother's  character.  His  pulse  beat  quicker  at  the  thought, 
because  it  would  involve  nearness  to  her  and  equality  of 
conversation.  That  Robert  had  any  special  fancy  for  the 
lady  never  entered  his  mind. 

Although  we  may  be  willing  to  abuse  those  who  belong 
to  us  we  always  feel  that  the  same  or  any  censure  coming 
from  an  outsider  is  more  or  less  unjust;  and,  too,  although 
the  faults  of  near  relatives  grieve  us  more  bitterly  than  the 
crimes  of  strangers,  yet  most  of  us  have  an  easy-going  way 
of  forgetting  all  about  the  offence  at  the  first  opportunity. 
There  is  nothing  in  the  world  stronger  than  the  quiet  force 
of  the  family  tie,  which,  except  in  case  of  need,  lies 
usually  so  passive  that  its  strength  is  overlooked  by  the 
superficial  observer.  It  was  by  virtue  of  this  tie  now  that 
the  two  brothers,  although  they  had  so  great  a  difference, 
although  they  were  so  constituted  as  to  see  most  things  very 
differently,  found  themselves  glad  to  be  in  each  other's 
company.     Their  hearts  grew  warmer  by  mere  proximity; 


CHAP,  iv]  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


329 


they  talked  of  old  family  incidents,  and  of  the  incidents 
of  the  present,  with  equal  zest.  The  one  thing  they  did 
not  immediately  mention  was  the  subject  of  the  quarrel 
about  which  they  had  not  yet  come  to  an  agreement. 

One  thing  that  fretted  Alec  considerably  during  that 
Sunday  and  Monday  was  that  Bates  had  arrived  at  Chellas- 
ton  in  such  a  weak  state,  and  had  had  so  severe  an  attack 
of  his  malady  on  the  Sunday  evening,  that  it  was  impossi- 
ble to  take  him  to  see  the  body  of  the  old  man  who  went 
by  the  name  of  Cameron.  It  was  in  vain  that  Bates  pro- 
tested, now  more  strongly  than  ever,  that  he  was  certain 
the  man  was  not  Cameron;  as  he  would  give  no  proof  of 
his  certainty  further  than  what  had  already  been  discussed 
between  them,  Alec  could  not  but  feel  that  he  was  unrea- 
sonable in  refusing  to  take  any  interest  in  the  question  of 
identity.  However,  he  was  not  well  enough  to  be  troubled, 
certainly  not  well  enough  to  be  moved.  Alec  strode  over 
to  Cooper's  farm  alone,  and  took  a  last  look  at  the  old  man 
where  he  lay  in  a  rough  shed,  and  gave  his  evidence  about 
the  death  before  the  coroner. 

What  few  belongings  the  old  man  had  were  taken  from 
the  Harmon  house  by  the  coroner  before  Harkness  left, 
but  no  writing  was  found  upon  them.  A  description  of  the 
body  was  advertised  in  the  Monday's  papers,  but  no  claim 
came  quickly.  Natural  law  is  imperious,  seeking  to  gather 
earth's  children  back  to  their  mother's  breast,  and  when 
three  warm  days  were  past,  all  of  him  that  bore  earthly 
image  and  superscription  was  given  back  to  earth  in  a 
corner  of  the  village  cemetery.  An  Adventist  minister, 
who  sometimes  preached  in  Chellaston,  came  to  hold  such 
service  as  he  thought  suitable  over  the  grave,  and  Alec 
Trenholme  was  one  of  the  very  few  who  stood,  hat  in  hand, 
to  see  the  simple  rite. 

They  were  not  in  the  old  graveyard  by  the  river,  but 
in  a  new  cemetery  that  had  been  opened  on  a  slope  above 
the  village.  It  was  a  bare,  stony  place;  shrubs  that  had 
been  planted  had  not  grown.     In  the  corner  where  they 


f 


\ 


330  PVI/AT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  hi 

stood  the  grass  had  not  been  cut,  but  was  long  and  light, 
faded  by  the  sun  and  moving  in  the  breeze.  Further  off 
some  new  pretentious  tombstones  had  been  erected  by  the 
richer  villagers,  but  near  their  feet  there  was  nothing  but 
the  high  faded  grass.  The  cemetery  was  near  the  top  of 
this  small  rising,  and  around,  in  slope  and  hollow,  lay 
fields  and  woods  with  the  first  faint  showing  of  autumn 
colour.  Alec  looked  beyond  to  the  abrupt,  simple  outline 
of  Chellaston  Mountain,  thought  of  the  scene  that  had  been 
enacted  there,  and  looked  back  to  see  the  earth  falling  in 
heavy  spadefuls  into  the  grave ;  and  he  thought  how  mad 
a  thing  was  faith — mad,  mad,  compared  with  sense  and 
reason,  as  this  old  man  had  been  mad  compared  with  his 
sane  fellow-men. 

Then,  when  the  grave  was  full,  they  walked  down  past 
the  respectable  little  English  church,  down  among  the 
prosperous-looking  houses,  into  the  busy  street.  Alec 
wished  to  examine  the  Harmon  house  where  the  dead  had 
so  lately  lived,  and,  having  obtained  the  key  for  this  pur- 
pose, then  turned  homewards.  As  he  went  past  the  gay 
windows  of  the  general  store  and  crossed  before  the  hotel, 
threading  his  way  among  carts  and  carriages,  all  the  cheer- 
ful business  of  the  little  place  seemed  like  an  unsubstan- 
tial thing,  necessary  and  desirable,  just  as  the  plays  of 
children  are  necessary  and  desirable,  but  in  no  sense  the 
most  important  phase  of  life.  It  was  an  unusual  mood  of 
reflection  that  was  upon  him,  and  because  he  was  not  given 
to  reflection,  thoughts  came  to  him  indistinctly  and  in  dis- 
orderly fashion.  As  he  strode  with  strong  step  out  toward 
the  college,  he  groped  among  all  the  manifold  contradic- 
tions of  duty  that  must  arrest  any  candid  mind  who  seeks 
to  conceive  the  true  ideal  of  life  amid  the  complexity  of 
things  that  are.  It  is  so  easy  for  straitened  minds  to  cut 
the  Gordian  knot  of  such  contradictions,  leaving  the  torn 
rope-ends  of  duty  for  angels  to  weep  over  and  for  other 
men  toilsomely  to  mend;  it  is  so  easy  for  careless  minds  to 
pass  by  the  knotj  it  is  so  impossible  for  good  minds  to 


CHAP.  IV] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


33' V 


untie  it,  except  little  by  little,  in  a  lifetime,  or  in  genera- 
tions of  lives !  Alec  Trenholme,  confronted  almost  for  the 
first  time  with  the  thought  that  it  is  not  easy  to  find  the 
ideal  modern  life,  even  when  one  is  anxious  to  conform  to 
it,  began  tugging  at  all  the  strands  of  difficulty  at  once, 
not  seeing  them  very  clearly,  but  still  with  no  notion  but 
that  if  he  set  his  strength  to  it,  he  could  unravel  them 
all  in  the  half-hour's  walk  that  lay  between  him  and  the 
college. 

He  had  not  got  from  under  the  arching  elms  at  the  thin 
end  of  the  village  when  two  young  ladies  in  an  open  phae- 
ton bowed  to  him.  He  was  not  absent;  his  mind  worked 
wholesomely  at  the  same  instant  with  his  senses.  He  saw 
and  knew  that  these  were  the  Miss  Browns,  to  whom  Rob- 
ert had  introduced  him  at  the  end  of  the  Sunday  evening 
service.  He  thought  them  very  pretty ;  he  had  seen  then 
that  they  were  very  gentle  and  respectful  to  Robert;  he 
saw  now  from  the  smile  that  accompanied  the  bow,  that  he 
was  a  person  they  delighted  to  honour.  They  were  driving 
quickly:  they  were  past  in  a  flash  of  time;  and  as  he 
replaced  his  hat  upon  his  head,  he  thought  that  he  really 
was  a  very  good-looking  fellow,  very  well  proportioned, 
and  straight  in  the  legs.  He  wondered  if  his  clothes  were 
just  the  thing;  they  had  not  been  worn  much,  bat  it  was  a 
year  since  he  had  got  them  in  England  to  bring  out,  and 
their  style  might  be  a  little  out  of  date !  Then  he  thought 
with  satisfaction  tliat  Robert  always  dressed  very  well. 
Robert  was  very  good-looking  too.  They  were  really  a  very 
fine  pair  of  brothers !  Their  father  had  been  a  very  fine — 
He  had  got  quite  a  bit  further  on  the  road  since  he  met  the 
carriage,  so  lightly  had  he  stepped  to  the  tune  of  these 
thoughts,  so  brightly  had  the  sun  shone  upon  them.  Now 
he  thought  of  that  pile  of  aprons  he  had  in  his  portman- 
teau, and  he  saw  them,  not  as  they  were  now,  freshly 
calendered  in  the  tight  folds  of  a  year's  disuse,  but  as  he 
had  often  seen  them,  with  splashes  of  blood  and  grease  on 
them.     He  fancied  the  same  stains  upon  his   hands  j  he 


332  WHAT  JVECESS/TV  KNOWS  [book  hi 

remembered  the  empty  shop  he  had  just  passed  near  the 
general  store,  which  for  nearly  a  year  back  he  had  coveted 
as  a  business  stand.  He  estimated  instinctively  the  differ- 
ence in  the  sort  of  bow  the  pretty  Brown  girls  would  be 
likely  to  give  him  if  he  carried  his  own  purpose  through. 
The  day  seemed  duller.  He  felt  more  sorry  for  his  brother 
than  he  had  ever  felt  before.  He  looked  about  at  the 
rough  fields,  the  rude  log  fences,  at  the  road  with  its  gross 
unevennesses  and  side  strips  of  untrimmed  weeds.  He 
looked  at  it  all,  his  man's  eyes  almost  wistful  as  a  girl's. 
Was  it  as  hard  in  this  new  crude  condition  of  things  to 
hew  for  oneself  a  new  way  through  the  invisible  barriers 
of  the  time-honoured  judgments  of  men,  as  it  would  be 
where  road  and  field  had  been  smoothed  by  the  passing  of 
generations? 

He  had  this  contrast  between  English  and  Canadian 
scenery  vividly  in  his  mind,  wondering  what  correspond- 
ing social  differences,  if  any,  could  be  found  to  make  his 
own  particular  problem  of  the  hour  more  easy,  and  all  the 
fine  speculations  he  had  had  when  he  came  down  from  the 
cemetery  had  resolved  themselves  into — whether,  after  all, 
it  would  be  better  to  go  on  being  a  butcher  or  not,  when  he 
came  to  the  beginning  of  the  Eexford  paling.  He  noticed 
how  battered  and  dingy  it  was.  The  former  owner  had 
had  it  painted  at  one  time,  but  the  paint  was  almost  worn 
off.  The  front  fencing  wanted  new  pales  in  many  places, 
and  the  half  acre's  space  of  grass  between  the  verandah 
and  the  road  was  wholly  unkempt.  It  certainly  did  not 
look  like  the  abode  of  a  family  of  any  pretensions.  It 
formed,  indeed,  such  a  contrast  to  any  house  he  would  have 
lived  in,  even  had  painting  and  fencing  to  be  done  with  his 
own  hand,  that  he  felt  a  sort  of  wratli  rising  in  him  at  Miss 
Rexford's  father  and  brother,  that  they  should  suffer  her 
to  live  in  such  a  place. 

He  had  not  come  well  in  front  before  he  observed  that 
the  women  of  the  family  were  grouped  at  work  on  the 
green  under  a  tree  near  the  far  end  of  the  house.     A 


CHAP.  IV] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


33Z 


L'll 


moment  more,  and  he  saw  the  lady  of  the  midni<jht  walk 
coming  towards  him  over  the  grass.  He  never  doubted 
that  it  was  she,  although  he  had  not  seen  her  before  by- 
daylight.  She  had  purposely  avoided  him  on  the  Sunday; 
he  had  felt  it  natural  she  should  do  so.  Now  when  he  saw 
her  coming — evidently  coming  on  purpose  to  waylay  and 
speak  to  him,  the  excitement  he  felt  was  quite  unaccounta- 
ble, even  to  himself;  not  that  he  tried  to  account  for  it — 
he  only  knew  that  she  was  coming,  that  his  heart  seemed 
to  beat  against  his  throat,  that  she  had  come  and  laid  her 
hand  upon  the  top  of  the  paling,  and  looked  over  at  him 
and  said: 

"  Have  they  buried  him?  Did  you — have  you  been  there?  " 

"Yes,"  said  he. 

"  We  have  only  just  heard  a  rumour  that  the  funeral  was 
taking  place.  I  thought  when  I  saw  you  that  perhaps  you 
had  been  there.  I  am  so  glad  you  went."  Her  eyes  looked 
upon  him  with  kind  approval. 

He  fancied  from  her  manner  that  she  thought  herself 
older  than  he — that  she  was  treating  him  like  a  boy.  Her 
face  was  bright  with  interest  and  had  the  flush  of  some 
slight  embarrassment  upon  it. 

He  told  her  what  had  happened  and  where  the  grave  was, 
and  stood  in  the  sweet  evening  air  with  quieted  manner 
before  her.  She  did  not  seem  to  be  thinking  of  what  he 
said.  "  There  was  something  else  that  I — I  rather  wanted 
to  take  the  first  opportunity  of  saying  to  you." 

All  her  face  now  was  rosy  with  embarrassment,  and  he 
saw  that,  although  she  went  on  bravely,  she  was  shy — shy 
of  him!  He  hardly  took  in  what  she  was  saying,  in  the 
wonder,  in  the  pier  ure  of  it.  Then  he  knew  that  she  had 
been  saying  that  she  feared  she  had  talked  to  him  while 
mistaking  him  for  his  brother,  that  what  she  had  said  had 
doubtless  appeared  very  wild,  very  foolisli,  as  he  did  not 
know  the  conversation  out  of  which  it  grew ;  probably  he 
had  forgotten  or  had  not  paid  heed  at  the  time,  but  if  he 
should  chance  to  remember,  and  had  not  already  repeated 


i 


334  IVI/Ar  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [hook  hi 

her  words,  would  lie  be  kind  enough  not  to  do  so,  and  to 
forget  them  himself? 

This  was  her  request,  and  he  guessed,  from  the  tenor  of 
it,  that  she  did  not  know  how  little  he  had  heard  in  all  or 
how  much  she  had  said  to  him  and  how  much  to  his  brother; 
that  she  would  like  to  know,  but  was  too  proud  to  ask  or  to 
hear;  that,  in  fact,  this  proud  lady  had  said  words  that  she 
was  ashamed  of. 

"  I  haven't  said  a  word  to  Robert  about  it,  and  of  course 
I  won't  now."  It  was  a  very  simple  thing  to  say,  yet  some 
way  he  felt  a  better  man  in  his  own  eyes  because  she  had 
asked  him.  He  did  not  claim  that  he  had  paid  no  atten- 
tion or  forgotten,  for  he  felt  just  now  that  all  her  words 
were  so  supremely  worthy  of  deference  that  he  only  wished 
he  could  remember  more  of  what  she  had  let  fall  when  her 
heart  was  stirred.  "Of  course,"  he  said,  "I  didn't  know  it 
had  been  Robert,  or  I  would  have  gone  back  for  him." 

He  floundered  on  into  the  midst  of  excuses,  and  her 
embarrassment  had  time  to  pass  away,  with  it  the  blush  on 
her  face,  and  he  felt  as  if  a  sun  had  somewhere  set. 

"  Thank  you  "  (she  was  all  sedateness  now)  "  I  fear  that 
Principal  Trenholme  is  suffering  very  much  from  his  foot 
and  will  be  kept  in  for  some  time.  If  you  had  told  me  that 
yDu  had  repeated  my  unjust  speeches  I  should  have  asked 
you  to  take  some  apology,  to  say  that  I  am  quite  willing  to 
acknowledge  my  own — unreasonableness." 

He  saw  that  this  speech  was  intended  to  cover  all  the 
ground,  and  that  he  was  desired  to  impart  as  much  of  the 
apology  as  he  believed  to  be  needed,  and  no  more.  He 
remembered  now  that  he  had  intended  to  plead  Robert's 
cause,  but  could  think  of  nothing  to  say  except 

"Robert  is — Robert  really  is  an  awfully  good  man." 

This  he  said  so  suddenly  and  so  earnestly  looking  at  her, 
that  she  was  betrayed  into  an  unintended  answer. 

"Is  he?"  And  then  in  a  moment  she  smiled  on  him 
again,  and  said  warmly,  "He  certainly  is  if  you  say  that; 
a  brother  knows  as  no  one  else  can." 


CHAP.  IV] 


IVHAT  NECESS/rV  KNOIVS 


335 


She  was  treating  him  like  a  boy  again.  He  did  not  like 
it  now  because  he  had  felt  the  sweetness  of  having  her  at  an 
advantage.  There  are  some  men  who,  when  they  see  what 
they  want,  stretch  out  their  hands  to  take  it  with  no  more 
complexity  of  thought  than  a  baby  has  when  it  reaches  for 
a  toy.  At  other  times  Alec  Trenholme  might  consider; 
just  then  he  only  knew  that  he  wanted  to  talk  longer  with 
this  stately  girl  who  was  now  retiring.  He  arrested  her 
steps  by  making  a  random  dash  at  the  first  question  that 
might  detain  her. 

There  was  much  that,  had  he  known  his  own  mind 
clearly  and  how  to  express  it,  he  would  have  liked  to  say  to 
her.  Deep  down  within,  him  he  was  questioning  whether 
it  was  possible  always  to  live  under  such  impulse  of  fealty 
to  Heaven  as  had  befallen  him  under  the  exciting  influence 
of  Cameron's  expectation,  whether  the  power  of  such  an 
hour  to  sift  the  good  from  the  evil,  the  important  from  the 
unimportant  in  life,  could  in  any  wise  be  retained.  But  he 
would  have  been  a  wholly  different  man  from  what  he  was 
had  he  thought  this  concisely,  or  said  it  aloud.  All  that  he 
did  was  to  express  superficial  curiosity  concerning  the  sen- 
timents of  others,  and  to  express  it  inanely  enough. 
.  "Do  you  think,"  he  said,  "that  all  those  poor  people — 
my  brother's  housekeeper,  for  instance — do  you  think  they 
really  thought — really  expected " 

"I  think — "  she  said.  (She  came  back  to  the  fence  and 
clasped  her  hands  upon  it  in  her  interest.)  "Don't  you 
think,  Mr.  Trenholme,  that  a  person  who  is  always  seeking 
the  Divine  Presence,  lives  in  it  and  has  power  to  make  other 
people  know  that  it  is  near?  But  then,  you  see,  these 
others  fancy  they  must  model  their  seeking  upon  the  poor 
vagaries  of  their  teacher.  We  are  certain  that  the  treasure 
is  found,  but — we  mix  up  things  so,  things  are  really  so 
mixed,  that  we  suppose  we  must  shape  our  ideas  upon  the 
earthen  vessel  that  holds  it.  I  don't  know  whether  I  have 
said  what  I  mean,  or  if  you  understand — "  she  stopped. 

She  was  complaining  that  people  will  not  distinguish 


^ 


336  IVHAT  NECESSITY  KlSfOlVS  [book  hi 

between  the  essence  of  the  heaven-sent  message  and  the 
accident  of  form  in  which  it  comes.  He  did  not  quite 
understand,  because,  if  the  truth  must  be  tokl,  he  had  not 
entirely  listened;  for  although  all  the  spiritual  nature  that 
was  in  him  was  stimulated  by  hers,  a  more  outward  sym- 
pathy asserted  itself  too;  he  became  moved  with  admira- 
tion and  liking  for  her,  and  feeling  struggled  with  thought. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  dreaming  of  her  alone,  "if  one  could 
always  be  with  people  who  are  good,  it  would  be  easier  to 
do  something  worth  doing." 

Notwithstanding  her  interest  in  what  she  was  saying, 
Sophia  began  now  to  see  the  inclination  of  his  heart  for  her 
as  one  might  see  a  trivial  detail  of  landscape  while  looking 
at  some  absorbing  thing,  such  as  a  race.  She  saw  the 
homage  he  inwardly  proffered  more  clearly  than  he  saw  it 
himself.  She  had  seen  the  same  thing  before  often  enough 
to  know  it. 

"I  think,"  she  continued,  "if  I  had  been  very  ignorant, 
and  had  seen  a  good  deal  of  this  old  man,  I  would  have 
followed  him  anywhere,  because  I  would  have  thought  the 
spiritual  force  of  his  life  was  based  on  his  opinions,  which 
must  therefore  be  considered  true.  Isn't  that  the  way  we 
are  apt  to  argue  about  any  phase  of  Church  or  Dissent  that 
has  vitality?" 

But  the  knowledge  she  had  just  come  by  was  making  its 
way  to  a  foremost  place  in  her  thought,  and  her  open  heart 
closed  gently  as  a  sensitive  plant  closes  its  leaves.  As  he 
watched  the  animation  of  her  face,  he  saw  the  habitual 
reserve  come  over  it  again  like  a  shadow.  He  felt  that  she 
was  withdrawing  from  him  as  truly  as  if  she  had  been  again 
walking  away,  although  now  she  stood  still  where  his 
renewal  of  talk  had  stopped  her.  He  tried  again  to  grasp 
at  the  moment  of  gracious  chance,  to  claim  her  interest,  but 
failed. 

He  went  on  down  the  road.  He  had  not  guessed  the  lady 
had  seen  his  heart,  for  he  hardly  saw  it  himself;  yet  he 
called  himself  a  blundering  fool.     He  wondered  that  he  had 


CHAP.  V] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


337 


dared  to  talk  with  lier  so  long,  yet  he  wondered  more  "-hat 
he  had  not  dared  to  talk  longer.  In  all  this  he  never  thought 
of  social  grades,  as  ho  had  done  in  connection  with  the  smiles 
of  the  Miss  Browns.  Sophia  llexford  had  struck  his  fancy 
more  as  a  superior  being;  and  to  angels,  or  to  the  Madonna, 
we  do  not  seek  to  recommend  ourselves  by  position  or 
pedigree. 

The  strong,  clear  evening  light,  tinted  with  gold,  was  upon 
everything.  He  felt  that  if  he  could  but  live  near  the 
woman  he  had  left,  the  problem  of  living  would  become 
simple,  and  the  light  of  life's  best  hours  would  shine  for 
him  always;  but  he  entered  into  no  line  distinction  of  ideal 
friendships. 


CHAPTER  V. 


In  the  meantime  the  elder  of  the  brothers  Trenholme  had 
not  the  satisfaction  of  meeting  with  Sophia  Rexford,  or  of 
going  to  see  the  strange  old  man  laid  away  in  his  last 
resting-place. 

Robert  Trenholme  lay  in  his  house,  suffering  a  good  deal 
of  physical  pain,  suffering  more  from  restlessness  of  nerve 
caused  by  his  former  tense  activity,  suffering  most  from  the 
consideration  of  various  things  which  were  grievous  to  him. 

He  had  been  flouted  by  the  woman  he  loved.  The  arrow 
she  had  let  fly  had  pierced  his  heart  and,  through  that,  his 
understanding.  He  never  told  her,  or  anyone,  how  angry 
he  had  been  at  the  first  stab  that  wounded,  nor  that,  when 
the  familiar  so  id  of  his  brother's  voice  came  to  him  in  the 
midst  of  this  anger,  he  had  been  dumb  rather  than  claim 
kindred  in  that  place  with  the  young  man  who,  by  his 
actions,  had  already  taken  up  the  same  reproach.  No,  he 
never  told  them  that  it  was  more  in  surly  rage  than  because 
he  had  slipped  in  the  ditch  that  he  had  let  them  go  on  with- 
out him  in  the  darkness ;  but  he  knew  that  this  had  been 
the  case}  and,  although  he  was  aware  of  no  momentous 


Witli^lM  nnmili 


338  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOIVS  [book  hi 

consequences  following  on  tliis  lapse,  he  loathed  himself 
for  it,  asking  by  what  gradual  steps  he  had  descended  to  be 
capable  of  such  a  moment  of  cliildish  and  churlish  temper. 
He  was  a  product  of  modern  culture,  and  had  the  devil  wlio 
had  overcome  him  been  merely  an  unforgiving  spirit,  or  the 
spirit  of  sarcastic  wit  or  of  self-satislied  indifference,  he 
might  hardly  have  noticed  that  he  had  fallen  from  the  high 
estate  of  Christian  manhood,  even  though  the  fiend  jumped 
astride  his  back  and  ambled  far  on  him;  but  when  he  found 
that  he  had  been  overcome  by  a  natural  impulse  of  passion- 
ate wrath  he  was  appalled,  and  was  philosopher  enough  to 
look  for  the  cause  of  such  weakness  prior  to  the  moment  of 
failure.  Was  it  true,  what  Sophia  had  said,  that  he  had 
sold  his  birthright  for  a  little  paltry  prosperity?  He  thought 
more  highly  of  her  discrimination  than  any  one  else  would 
have  done,  because  he  loved  her.  What  had  she  seen  in 
him  to  make  her  use  that  form  of  accusation?  And  if  it 
was  true,  was  there  for  him  no  place  of  repentance? 

Then  he  remembered  the  purer  air  of  the  dark  mountain- 
top.  There  he  had  seen  many  from  his  own  little  cure  of 
souls  who  were  shaken  by  the  madman's  fervour  as  he  had 
never  been  able  to  move  them  by  precept  or  example. 
There  he,  too,  had  seen,  with  sight  borrowed  from  the  eyes 
of  the  enthusiast,  the  enthusiast's  Lord,  seen  Him  the  more 
readily  because  there  had  been  times  in  his  life  when  he 
had  not  needed  another  to  show  him  the  loveliness  that 
exceeds  all  other  loveliness.  He  was  versed  in  the  chronicle 
of  the  days  when  the  power  of  God  wrought  wonders  by 
('^""oted  men,  and  he  asked  himself  with  whom  this  power 
had  been  working  here  of  late — with  him,  the  priest,  or 
with  this  wandering  fool,  out  of  whose  lips  it  would  seem 
that  praise  was  ordained.  He  looked  back  to  divers  hours 
when  he  had  given  himself  wholly  to  the  love  of  God,  and 
to  the  long  reaches  of  time  between  them,  in  which  he  had 
not  cast  away  the  muck-rake,  but  had  trailed  it  after  him 
with  one  hand  as  he  walked  forward,  looking  to  the  angel 
and  the  crown.     He  seemed  to  see  St.  Peter  pointing  to  the 


CHAP.  V] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  K'NOH'S 


339 


rer 

or 

im 

irs 

Ind 

lad 

Im 

jel 

the 


life  all  wliich  lie  had  professed  to  devote  while  he  had  kept 
back  i)art ;  and  St.  Teter  said,  "  Whiles  it  remained,  was  it 
not  thine  own?  Thou  hast  not  lied  unto  men,  but  unto  God." 
There  was  for  him  the  choice  that  is  given  to  every  man 
in  this  sort  of  pain,  the  choice  between  duUl  .g  his  mind  to 
the  pain,  letting  it  j)ass  from  him  as  he  holds  on  his  way 
(and  God  knows  it  passes  easily),  or  clasping  it  as  the  higher 
good.  Perhaps  tliis  man  would  not  have  been  wiser  than 
many  other  men  in  his  choice  had  he  not  looked  at  the 
gathering  of  his  muck-rake  and  in  that  found  no  comfort. 
Since  a  woman  had  called  this  prosperity  paltry,  it  seemed 
less  substantial  in  his  own  eyes ;  but,  paltry  or  worthy,  he 
believed  that  it  was  in  the  power  of  his  younger  brother  to 
reverse  that  prosperity,  and  he  felt  neither  brave  enough  to 
face  this  misfortune  nor  bad  enough  to  tamper  with  that 
brother's  crude  ideals  for  the  sake  of  his  own  gain.  From 
the  length  of  his  own  experience,  from  the  present  weari- 
ness of  his  soul,  he  looked  upon  Alec  more  tha^^L  ever  as  a 
boy  to  be  shielded  from  the  shock  of  further  disillusion 
with  regard  to  himself.  He  had  not  had  Alec's  weal  a 
thorn  in  his  conscience  for  ten  months  without  coming  to 
feel  that,  if  merely  for  the  sake  of  his  own  comfort,  he 
wouj  ^  not  shoulder  that  burden  again.  Now  this  conception 
he  ha^-  of  Alec  as  a  weaker  man,  and  of  his  ideals  as  crude 
and  yet  needing  tender  dealing,  was  possibly  a  mistaken 
one,  yet,  so  curious  is  our  life  that,  true  or  false,  it  was  the 
thing  that  at  this  juncture  made  him  spurn  all  thought  of 
setting  aside  the  reproach  of  his  roused  sense  of  loss  as 
morbid  or  unreal.  He  looked  to  his  early  realisation  of  the 
all-attractiveness  of  the  love  of  God,  not  with  the  rational 
view  that  such  phase  of  religion  is  ordained  to  fade  in  the 
heat  of  life,  but  with  passionate  regret  that  by  his  own  fault 
he  had  turned  away  from  the  glory  of  life.  He  thought  of 
the  foolish  dreamer  who  had  been  struck  dead  in  the  full 
impulse  of  adoration  and  longing  love,  and  he  would  have 
given  re  >n  and  life  itself  to  have  such  gate  of  death  open 
now  for  him. 


•  %■   • 

340  WHAT  NEC  ESS/ TV  KNOWS  [hook  hi 

His  spirit  did  not  rest,  but  tossed  constantly,  as  a  fever 
patient  upon  liis  bod,  for  rest  requires  more  than  the  softest 
of  beds;  and  as  even  those  whose  bodies  are  stretched  on 
pillows  of  down  may  be  too  weak  to  find  bodily  rest,  so  the 
soul  that  lies,  as  do  all  self-sick  souls,  in  the  everlasting 
arms,  too  often  lacks  health  to  feel  tlie  up-bearing. 

A  clever  sailor,  whoso  ship  is  sinking  because  of  too 
much  freight  does  not  think  long  before  he  throws  the 
treasure  overboard ;  a  wise  man  in  pain  makes  quick  vows 
of  abstinence  from  the  cause  of  pain.  In  Trenholme  there 
was  little  vestige  of  that  low  type  of  will  which  we  see  in 
lobsters  and  in  many  wilful  men,  who  go  on  clutching 
whatever  they  have  clutched,  whether  it  be  useful  or  use- 
less, till  the  claw  is  cut  off.  He  had  not  realised  that  he 
had  fallen  from  the  heiglit  of  his  endeavours  before  he  began 
to  look  about  eagerly  for  something  that  he  might  sacrifice. 
But  here  he  was  met  by  the  difficulty  that  proves  that  in 
the  higher  stages  of  human  development  honest  effort  after 
righteousness  is  not  one  whit  easier  than  are  man's  first 
simple  efforts  to  put  down  the  brute  in  him.  Trenholme 
could  find  in  himself  no  offending  member  that  was  not 
so  full  of  good  works  toward  others  that  he  could  hardly 
destroy  it  witliout  defrauding  them.     He  had  sought  noth-  y 

ing  for  himself  that  was  not  a  legitimate  object  of  desire. 
The  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil  had  polished  themselves 
to  match  all  that  was  best  in  him,  and  blended  impartially 
with  it,  so  that  in  very  truth  he  did  not  know  where  to  con- 
^y         damn.     A  brave  man,  when  examined,  will  confess  all  that 
V    ' ,      he  honourably  may,  but  not  more;  so  Trenholme  confessed 
::^  himself  to  be  worldly,  but  against  that  he  was  forced  to 

confess  that  a  true  son  of  the  world  would  have  been  insen- 
;         isible  to  the  torture  he  was  groaning  under.     He  upbraided 
^  himself  for  not  knowing  right  from  wrong,  and  yet  he  knew 

"  that  it  was  only  a  very  superficial  mind  tliat  imagined  that 

without  direct  inspiration  from  Heaven  it  could  detect  its 
sin  and  error  truly.  Crying  for  such  inspiration,  his  cry 
seemed  unanswered, 


CHAP.  Vl] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


341 


All,  wcdl,  eacli  man  must  parley  as  best  he  may  with  the 
Angel  who  withstands  him  in  the  narrow  ])la('e  where 
there  is  no  way  to  turn  to  the  right  hand  or  the  left.  We 
desire  at  sueh  times  to  be  shown  some  such  clear  ])ortrait- 
ure  of  the  ideal  to  which  we  must  conform  in  our  ])hi('(^  and 
(urcumstance  as  sluill  cause  us  no  more  to  mistake  good 
for  evil.  Possibly,  if  such  imago  of  all  we  ourselves  ought 
to  be  were  given  to  our  gaze,  we  could  not  look  in  its  eyes 
and  live.  Possibly,  if  Heaven  granted  us  the  knowledge 
of  all  thoughts  and  deeds  that  would  make  up  tlu!  ideal 
self,  we  should  go  on  our  way  i)roducing  vile  imitations  of 
it  and  neglecting  Heaven,  as  they  do  who  seek  only  to 
imitate  the  Divine  Example.  At  any  rate,  such  perfection 
of  self -ideal  is  not  given  us,  except  with  the  years  that 
make  up  the  sum  of  life. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


ly 


tiy 


to 


;ry 


Robert  Treniiolmf]  had  a  lively  wit,  and  it  stood  him 
many  times  in  lieu  of  chapel  walls,  for  within  it  he  could 
retire  at  all  times  and  be  hidden.  Of  all  that  he  experi- 
enced within  his  heart  at  this  time  not  any  part  was  visible 
to  the  brother  who  was  his  idle  visitor;  or  perhaps  only 
the  least  part,  and  that  not  until  the  moot  point  between 
them  was  touched  upon. 

There  came  a  day,  two  days  after  the  old  preacher  had 
been  buried,  when  the  elder  brother  called  out: 
•   "Come,  my  lad,  I  want  to  speak  to  you."  '^^ 

•  'Robert  was  lying  on  a  long  couch  improvised  for  him  in 
the  corner  of  his  study.  The  time  was  that  warm  hour  of 
the  afternoon  when  the  birds  are  quiet  and  even  the  flies 
buzz  drowsily.  Bees  in  the  piebald  petunias  that  grew 
straggling  and  sweet  above  the  sill  of  the  open  window, 
dozed  long  in  each  sticky  chalice.  Alec  was  taking  off  his 
boots  in  the  lobby,  and  in  reply  to  the  condescending  invi- 
tation he  muttered  some  graceless  words  concerning  his 


342 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  III 


iB.- 


|l 


! 


grandmother,  but  he  came  into  the  room  and  sat  with  his 
elbows  on  the  table.  He  had  an  idea  of  what  might  be 
said,  and  felt  the  awkwardness  of  it. 

"That  fellow  Bates,"  he  observed,  "is  devouring  your 
book-case  indiscriminately.  He  seems  to  be  in  the  sort  of 
fever  that  needs  distraction  every  moment.  T  asked  him 
what  he'd  have  to  read,  and  he  said  the  next  five  on  the 
shelf — he's  read  the  first  ten." 

"  It's  not  of  Bates  I  wish  to  speak ;  I  want  to  know  what 
you've  decided  to  do.  Are  you  going  to  stick  to  your 
father's  trade,  or  take  to  some  other?" 

Robert  held  one  arm  above  his  head,  with  his  fingers 
through  the  leaves  of  the  book  he  had  been  reading.  He 
tried  to  speak  in  a  casual  way,  but  they  both  had  a  disa- 
greeable consciousness  that  the  occasion  was  momentous. 
Alec's  mind  assumed  the  cautious  attitude  of  a  schoolboy 
whispering  "  Cave."  He  supposed  that  the  other  hoped 
now  to  achieve  by  gentleness  what  he  had  been  unable  to 
achieve  by  storm. 

"Of  course,"  he  answered,  "I  won't  set  up  here  if  you'd 
rather  be  quit  of  me.  I'll  go  as  far  as  British  Columbia, 
if  that's  necessary  to  make  you  comfortable." 

"By  that  I  understand  that  in  these  ten  months  your 
mind  has  not  altered." 

"No;  but  as  I  say,  I  won't  bother  you." 

"  Have  you  reconsidered  the  question,  or  have  you  stuck 
to  it  because  you  said  you  would?  " 

"I  have  reconsidered  it." 

"You  feel  quite  satisfied  that,  as  far  as  you  are  con- 
cerned, this  is  the  right  thing  to  do?  " 

"Yes." 

"Well  then,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  don't  want  to 
drive  you  to  the  other  side  of  the  continent.  You  can  take 
advantage  of  the  opening  here  if  you  want  to." 

Alec  looked  down  at  the  things  on  the  table.  He  felt 
the  embarrassment  of  detecting  his  brother  in  some  private 
religious  exercise;  nothing,  he  thought,  but  an  excess  of 


CHAP.  Vl] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


343 


sit 
te 
of 


self-denial  could  have  brought  this  about;  yet  he  was 
gratified. 

"  Look  here !  You'd  better  not  say  that — I  might  take 
you  at  your  word." 

"  Consider  that  settled.  You  set  up  shop,  and  I  will  take 
a  fraternal  interest  in  the  number  of  animals  you  kill,  and 
always  tell  you  with  conscientious  care  when  the  beef  you 
supply  to  me  is  tough.  And  in  the  meantime,  tell  me,  like 
a  good  fellow,  why  you  stick  to  this  thing.  When  you 
flung  from  me  last  time  you  gave  me  no  explanation  of 
what  you  thought. " 

"At  least,"  cried  Alec,  wrath  rising  at  the  memory  of 
that  quarrel,  "  I  gave  you  a  fair  hearing,  and  knew  what 
you  thought." 

When  anger  began  he  looked  his  brother  full  in  the  face, 
thus  noticing  how  thin  that  face  was,  too  thin  for  a  man 
in  the  prime  of  life,  and  the  eye  was  too  bright.  As  the 
brief  feeling  of  annoyance  subtiided,  the  habitual  charm  of 
the  elder  man's  smile  made  him  continue  to  look  at  him. 

"And  yet,"  continued  Robert,  "two  wrongs  do  not  make 
a  right.  That  I  am  a  snob  does  not  excuse  you  for  taking 
up  any  line  of  life  short  of  the  noblest  within  your  reach." 

The  other  again  warned  himself  against  hidden  danger. 
"  You're  such  a  confoundedly  fascinating  fellow,  with  your 
smiles  and  your  suppressed  religion,  I  don't  wonder  the  girls 
run  after  you.  But  you  are  a  Jesuit — I  never  called  you  a 
snob — you're  giving  yourself  names  to  fetch  me  round  to 
see  things  your  way." 

It  was  an  outburst,  half  of  admiring  affection,  half  of 
angry  obstinacy,  and  the  elder  brother  received  it  without 
resentment,  albeit  a  little  absently.  He  was  thinking  that 
if  Alec  held  out,  "  the  girls  "  would  not  run  after  him  mucli 
more.  But  then  he  thought  that  there  was  one  among 
them  who  would  not  think  less,  who  perhaps  might  think 
more  of  him,  for  this  sacrifice.  He  had  not  made  it  for 
her;  it  might  never  be  his  lot  to  make  any  sacrifice  for  her; 
yet  she  perhaps  would  understand  this  one  and  applaud  it. 


» 


344  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  hi  ' 

The  thought  brought  a  sudden  light  to  his  face,  and  Alec 
watched  the  light  and  had  no  clue  by  which  to  understand 
it.     He  began,  however,  defending  himself. 

"Look  here!  You  suggest  I  should  take  the  noblest 
course,  as  if  I  had  never  thought  of  that  before.  Vm  not 
lower  in  the  scale  of  creation  than  you,  and  I've  had  the 
same  bringing  up.  I've  never  done  anything  great,  but 
I've  tried  not  to  do  the  other  thing.  I  felt  I  should  be  a 
sneak  when  I  left  school  if  I  disappointed  father  for  the 
sake  of  being  something  fine,  and  I  feel  I  should  be  a  sneak 
now  if  I  turned " 

"  You  acted  like  the  dear  fellow  I  always  knew  you  were 
in  the  first  instance,  but  why  is  it  the  same  now?  It's 
not  for  his  sake,  surely,  for,  for  all  you  know,  from  where 
he  is  now,  the  sight  of  you  going  on  with  that  work  may  not 
give  him  pleasure,  but  pain." 

"i.o;  I  went  into  it  to  please  him,  but  now  he's  gone 
that's  ended." 

"  Then  it's  not  the  same  now.  Why  do  you  say  you'd 
feel  like  a  sneak  if  you  changed?  There  is,  I  think,  no 
goddess  or  patron  saint  of  the  trade,  who  would  be  person- 
ally offended  at  your  desertion." 

"You  don't  understand  at  all.  I'm  sick — just  sick,  of 
seeing  men  trying  to  find  something  grand  enough  to  do, 
instead  of  trying  to  do  the  first  thing  they  can  grandly." 

"I  haven't  noticed  that  men  are  so  set  on  rising." 

"No,  not  always;  but  when  they're  not  ambitious  enough 
to  get  something  fine  to  do,  they're  not  ambitious  enough 
to  do  what  they  do  well,  unless  it's  for  the  sake  of  money. 
Look  at  the  fellows  that  went  to  school  with  us,  half  of 
them  shopkeepers'  sons.  How  many  of  them  went  in  with 
their  fathers?  Just  those  who  were  mean  enough  to  care 
for  nothing  but  money-making,  and  those  who  were  too  dull 
to  do  anything  else." 

"  The  education  tliey  got  was  good  enough  to  give  them 
a  taste  for  higher  callings." 

"Yes" — with  a  sneer — "and  how  the  masters   gloried 


CHAP.  Vl] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


345 


lo, 


lire 
lull 

lem 

lied 


over  such  brilliant  examples  as  yourself,  who  felt  them- 
selves 'called  higher,'  so  to  speak!  You  had  left  school  by 
the  time  I  came  to  it,  but  I  had  your  shining  tracks  poin+^ed 
out  to  me  all  along  the  way,  and  old  Thompson  told  me  that 
Wolsey's  father  was  'in  the  same  line  as  my  papa,'  and  he 
instructed  me  about  Kirke  White's  career;  and  I,  greedy 
little  pig  that  I  was,  sucked  it  all  in  till  I  sickened.  I've 
never  been  able  to  feed  on  any  of  that  food  since." 

In  a  moment  the  other  continued,  "  Well,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  our  own  father  was  too  true  and  simple  ever  to  be 
anything  but  a  gentleman,  it  remains  true  that  the  choice 
of  this  trade  and  others  on  a  level  with  it " 

"  Such  as  hunting  and  shooting,  or  the  cooking  of  meats 
that  ladies  are  encouraged  to  devote  themselves  to." 

"  I  was  saying — the  choice  of  this  trade,  or  of  others  on  a 
level  with  it,  be  they  whatever  they  are,  implies  something 
coarse  in  the  grain  of  the  average  man  who  chooses  it,  and 
has  a  coarsening  effect  upon  him." 

"If  the  old  novels  are  any  true  picture  of  life,  there  was 
a  time  when  every  cleric  was  a  place-hunter.  Would  you 
have  advised  good  men  to  keep  out  of  the  church  at  that 
time?  I'm  told  there's  hardly  an  honourable  man  in 
United  States  politics:  is  that  less  reason,  or  more,  for 
honest  fellows  to  go  into  public  life  there?"  (Impatience 
was  waxing  again.  The  words  fell  after  one  another  in 
hot  haste.)  "There's  a  time  coming  when  every  man  will 
be  taught  to  like  to  keep  his  hands  clean  and  read  the  poets ; 
and  will  you  preach  to  them  all  then  that  they  mustn't  be 
coarse  enough  to  do  necessary  work,  or  do  you  imagine  it 
will  be  well  done  if  they  all  do  an  hour  a  day  at  it  in  ama- 
teur fashion?     You're  thoroughly  inconsistent,"  he  cried. 

"Do  you  imagine  I'm  trying  to  argue  with  you,  boy?" 
cried  the  other,  bitterly.  "I  could  say  a  tliousand  things 
to  the  point,  but  I've  no  desire  to  say  them.  I  simply 
wish  to  state  the  thing  fairly,  to  see  how  far  you  have 
worked  through  it." 

"  I've  thought  it  out  rather  more  thorouglily  than  yoU;  it 
seems  to  me,  for  at  least  I'm  consistent." 


ill,. 

1! 


346  IVHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  hi 

They  were  both  offended;  the  elder  biting  his  lip  over 
sarcastic  words,  the  younger  flushed  with  hasty  indigna- 
tion. Then,  in  a  minute,  the  one  put  away  his  anger,  and 
the  other,  forgetting  the  greater  part  of  his,  talked  on. 

"I'll  tell  you  the  sort  of  thing  that's  made  me  feel  I 
should  be  a  sneak  to  give  it  up.  Just  after  1  left  school  I 
went  back  to  visit  old  Thompson,  and  he  and  his  wife  took 
me  to  a  ball  at  the  Assembly  llooms.  It  was  quite  a  swell 
affair,  and  there  weren't  enough  men.  So  old  Thompson 
edged  us  up  to  a  grand  dame  with  a  row  of  daughters,  and 
I  heard  him  in  plethoric  whisper  informing  her,  as  in  duty 
bound,  just  who  I  was,  'but,'  added  he,  as  a  compensating 
fact,  'there  isn't  a  finer  or  more  gentlemanly  fellow  in  the 
room.'  So  the  old  hen  turned  round  and  took  me  in  with 
one  eye,  all  my  features  and  proportions;  but  it  wasn't  till 
Thompson  told  her  that  father  was  about  to  retire,  and  that 
I,  of  course,  was  looking  to  enter  a  higher  walk,  that  she 
gave  permission  to  trot  me  up.  Do  you  think  I  went? 
They  were  pretty  girls  she  had,  and  the  music — I'd  have 
given  something  to  dance  that  night;  but  if  I  was  the  sort 
of  man  she'd  let  dance  with  her  girls,  she  needn't  have 
taken  anything  else  into  account;  and  if  I  was  decent 
enough  for  them,  it  was  because  of  something  else  in  me 
other  than  what  I  did  or  didn't  do.  I  swore  then,  by  all 
that's  sweet — by  music  and  pretty  girls  and  everything 
else — that  I'd  carve  carcases  for  the  rest  of  m^  ^ays,  and  if 
the  ladies  didn't  want  me  they  might  do  without  me.  You 
know  how  it  was  with  father;  all  the  professional  men  in 
the  place  were  only  too  glad  to  have  a  chat  with  him  in  the 
reading-rooms  and  the  hotel.  They  knew  his  worth,  but 
they  wouldn't  have  had  him  inside  their  own  doors.  Well, 
the  worse  for  their  wives  and  daughters,  say  I.  They  did 
without  him;  they  can  do  without  me.  The  man  that  will 
only  have  me  on  condition  his  trade  is  not  mine  can  do 
without  me  too,  and  if  it's  the  same  in  a  new  country,  then 
the  new  country  be  damned !  " 

The  hot-headed  speaker,  striding  about  the  room,  stopped 


CHAP.  VI] 


IVHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


347 


11, 


with  the  word  that  ended  this  tirade,  and  gave  it  out 
roundly. 

"The  thing  is,"  said  Robert,  "can  yon  do  without  them 
— all  these  men  and  women  who  won't  have  you  on  your 
own  terms?  They  constitute  all  the  men  and  women  in  the 
world  for  you  and  me,  for  we  don't  care  for  the  other  sort. 
Can  you  do  without  them?  I  couldn't."  He  said  the  "I 
couldn't "  first  as  if  looking  back  to  the  time  when  he  had 
broken  loose  from  the  family  tradition ;  he  repeated  it  more 
steadfastly,  and  it  seemed  to  press  pathetically  into  pres- 
ent and  future — "I  couldn't."  The  book  that  he  had  been 
idly  swinging  above  his  pillow  was  an  old  missal,  and  he 
lowered  it  now  to  shield  his  face  somewhat  from  his 
brother's  downward  gaze. 

"No,  you  couldn't,"  repeated  Alec  soberly.  He  stood 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  looking  down  half  pityingly, 
perhaps  with  a  touch  of  superiority.  "You  couldn't;  but 
I  can,  and  I'll  stand  by  my  colours.  I  should  be  a  coward 
if  I  didn't." 

Robert  coloured  under  his  look,  under  his  words,  so  he 
turned  away  and  stood  by  the  window.  After  a  minute 
Robert  spoke. 

"You  haven't  given  me  the  slightest  reason  for  your 
repeated  assertion  that  you  would  be  a  coward." 

"Yes,  I  have.     That's  just  what  I've  been  saying." 

"  You  have  only  explained  that  you  think  so  the  more 
strongly  for  all  opposition,  and  that  may  not  be  rational. 
Other  men  can  do  this  work  and  be  thankful  to  get  it;  you 
can  do  higher  work."  His  words  were  constrainedly  pa- 
tient, but  they  only  raised  clamour. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  profess  and  call  yourself!  What 
should  I  change  for?  To  pamper  your  pride  and  mine — is 
that  a  worthy  end?  To  find  something  easier  and  more 
agreeable — is  that  manly,  when  this  has  be<^n  put  into  my 
hand?  How  do  I  know  I  could  do  anything  better?  I 
know  I  can  do  this  well.  As  for  these  fine  folks  you've 
been  talking  of,  I'll  see  they  get  good  food,  wherever  I  am; 


348  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  in 

and  that's  not  as  easy  as  yon  think,  nor  as  often  done;  and 
there's  not  one  of  them  that  woukl  do  all  their  grand  em- 
ployments if  they  weren't  catered  for;  and  as  for  the  other 
men  that  would  do  it"  (he  was  incoherent  in  his  heat), 
"they  do  it  pretty  badly,  some  of  them,  just  because 
they're  coarse  in  the  grain;  and  you  tell  me  it'll  make  them 
coarser;  well  then,  I,  who  can  do  it  without  getting  coarse, 
will  do  it,  till  men  and  women  stop  eating  butcher's  meat. 
You'd  think  it  more  pious  if  I  put  my  religion  into  being 
a  missionary  to  the  Chinese,  or  into  writing  tracts?  Well, 
I  don't." 

He  was  enthusiastic;  he  was  perhaps  very  foolish;  but 
the  brother  who  was  older  had  learned  at  least  this,  that  it 
does  not  follow  that  a  man  is  in  the  wrong  because  he  can 
give  no  wiser  reason  for  his  course  than  "  I  take  this  way 
because  I  will  take  it." 

"Disarm  yourself,  old  fellow,"  he  said.  "1  am  not  go- 
ing to  try  to  dissuade  you.  I  tried  that  last  year,  and  I 
didn't  succeed;  and  if  I  had  promise  of  success  now,  I 
wouldn't  try.  Life's  a  fearful  thing,  just  because,  when 
we  shut  our  eyes  to  what  is  right  in  the  morning,  at  noon 
it's  not  given  us  to  see  the  difference  between  black  and 
white,  unless  our  eyes  get  washed  with  the  right  sort  of 
tears." 

Alec  leaned  his  head  out  of  the  window;  he  felt  that  his 
brother  was  making  a  muff  of  himself,  and  did  not  like  it. 

"If  you  see  this  thing  clearly,"  Robert  continued,  "I 
say,  go  ahead  and  do  it;  but  I  want  you  just  to  see  the 
whole  of  it.  According  to  you,  I  am  on  the  wrong  track ; 
but  I  have  got  far  along  it,  and  now  I  have  other  people  to 
consider.  It  seems  a  pity,  when  there  are  only  two  of  us 
in  the  world,  that  we  should  have  to  put  half  the  world 
between  us.  We  used  to  have  the  name,  at  least  of  being 
attached."  He  stopped  to  find  the  thread,  it  was  a  dis- 
connected speech  for  him  to  formulate.  He  had  put  his 
arm  under  his  head  now,  and  was  looking  round  at  his 
brother.     "I   have   never   misrepresented  anything.     For 


CHAP.  Vl] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


349 


the  matter  of  that,  the  man  who  had  most  to  do  with  put- 
ting me  in  my  berth  here,  knew  all  that  there  was  to  be 
known  about  my  father.  He  didn't  publish  the  matter, 
for  the  sake  of  the  school;  and  when  I  had  taken  the 
school,  I  couldn't  publish  it  either.  All  the  world  was 
free  to  inquire,  but  as  far  as  I  know,  no  one  has  done  so; 
and  I  have  let  the  sleeping  dog  lie." 

"I  never  said  you  ought  to  have  been  more  talkative. 
It's  not  my  business." 

"  The  position  you  take  makes  it  appear  that  I  am  in  a 
false  position.  Give  me  time  to  get  about  again.  I  ought 
at  least  to  be  more  frank  with  my  personal  friends.  Wait 
till  I  have  opportunity  to  speak  myself — that  is  all  I  ask  of 
you.  After  that  do  what  you  will;  but  I  tliink  it  only 
right  to  tell  you  that  if  you  set  up  shop  here,  or  near  here, 
I  should  resign  my  place  in  this  college." 

"  I'm  not  going  to  stay  here.  I  told  you  I  see  that  won't 
work." 

"Don't  be  hasty.  As  I  said,  it's  hard  lines  if  this  must 
separate  us.  I  can  keep  the  church.  They  can't  be  par- 
ticular about  my  status  there,  because  they  can't  pay  me." 

"It's  mad  to  think  of  such  a  thing;  it  would  be  worse 
for  the  college  than  for  you." 

"  If  I  knew  it  would  be  the  worse  for  the  college  it  might 
not  be  right  to  do  it"  (he  spoke  as  if  this  had  cost  him 
thought),  "  but  there  are  plenty  who  can  manage  a  concern 
like  this,  now  it  is  fairly  established,  even  if  they  could 
not  have  worked  it  up  as  I  have." 

"  I'd  like  to  see  them  get  another  man  like  you!  " — loudly 
— "  H'n,  if  they  accepted  your  resignation  they'd  find  them- 
selves on  the  wrong  side  of  the  hedge !  They  wouldn't  do 
it,  either;  it  isn't  as  if  you  were  not  known  now  for  what 
you  are.  The;-  ^n't  be  such  fools  as  to  think  that  where  I 
am,  or  what  I  do,  can  alter  you." 

"  It  is  no^  '"ith  the  more  sensible  men  who  are  responsible 
for  th-^  colL  ,^v.  that  the  choice  would  ultimately  lie,  but  with, 
the  ^  ^j%^  parents.     If  the  numbers  drop  — " 


350  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [hook  iii 


U  r 


Then  the  parents  are  the  greatest  idiots " 

There  was  a  world  of  wrath  in  the  words,  but  the  princi- 
pal of  the  New  College,  who  felt  his  position  so  insecure, 
laughed. 

"  Yes,  you  may  fairly  count  on  that.  A  clever  woman, 
who  kept  a  girls'  school,  told  me  once  that  if  she  had  to 
draw  up  rules  for  efficient  school-keeping  they  would  begin : 
— '1st.  Drown  all  the  parents! ' — My  own  experience  has 
led  me  to  think  she  was  not  far  wrong." 

Alec  stood  looking  out  of  the  open  window  with  a  thun- 
do.'ous  face.  For  several  reasons,  some  of  which  he  hardly 
understood,  he  did  not  want  to  leave  Chellaston;  but  he 
had  no  intention  of  ruining  his  brother.  It  annoyed  him 
that  Eobert  should  seriously  propose  to  retire,  and  more, 
that  he  should  let  jokes  and  laughter  fall  on  the  heels  of 
such  a  proposal.  He  did  not  know  that  there  are  hours  to 
some  men,  coming  not  in  the  heat  of  party  conflict,  but  in 
the  quiet  of  daily  life,  when  martyrdom  would  be  easy,  and 
any  sacrifice  short  of  martyrdom  is  mere  play.  And  because 
he  did  not  know  this,  he  did  not  believe  in  it,  just  as  the 
average  man  does  not.  His  cogitation,  however,  was  not  on 
such  abstruse  matters,  nor  was  it  long,  but  its  result  was 
not  insignificant. 

"  Put  your  money  into  it,"  he  said,  "  and  fight  it  out!  Put 
part  of  my  money  into  it,  if  you  like,  and  let  us  fight  it  out 
together." 

Perhaps  the  sentiment  that  actuated  the  suggestion,  even 
as  concerned  part  of  his  own  inheritance,  was  nothing  more 
than  pugilistic;  the  idea,  however,  came  to  Kobert  Tren- 
holme  as  entirely  a  new  one.  The  proceeds  of  his  father's 
successful  trade  lay  temporarily  invested,  awaiting  Alec's 
decision,  and  his  own  share  would  probably  be  ample  to  tide 
the  college  over  any  such  shock  to  its  income  as  might  be 
feared  from  the  circumstances  they  had  been  contemplating, 
and  until  public  confidence  might  be  laboriously  regained. 
The  plan  was  not  one  that  would  have  occurred  to  his  own 
mind — fi.rst,  because  the  suggestions  of  his  mind  were  always 


CHAP.  VIl] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


351 


prudent ;  secondly,  because  such  a  fight  was  shocking  to  that 
part  of  his  nature  whicli  was  usually  uppermost.  It  would 
be  far  more  agreeable  to  him  to  turn  away  from  the  averted 
eyes  of  correct  taste  than  to  stand  brazenly  till  he  was  again 
tolerated.  Still,  this  very  thing  he  disliked  most  might  be 
the  thing  that  he  was  meant  to  do,  and  also  there  is  nothing 
more  contagious  than  the  passion  for  war.  Alec's  bellicose 
attitude  aroused  party  spirit  in  him.  He  knew  the  power 
of  money;  he  knew  tlie  power  of  the  prestige  he  had;  he 
began  to  realise  that  he  could  do  this  thing  if  he  chose. 

"You  are  a  piece  of  consummate  conceit,"  he  mocked. 
"  Do  you  imagine  that  with  a  little  money,  and  a  very  few 
personal  graces,  we  two  can  brow-beat  the  good  judgment  of 
the  public?" 

"The  fun  of  the  fight  would  be  worth  the  money  almost," 
observed  Alec  parenthetically.  Then  he  jeered:  "Brace 
up,  and  put  on  more  style;  put  your  groom  in  livery;  get 
a  page  to  open  your  front  door;  agitate  till  you  get  some 
honorary  degrees  from  American  colleges !  And  as  for  me, 
I'll  send  out  my  bills  on  parchment  paper,  with  a  mono- 
gram and  a  crest." 

"Do  you  so  despise  your  fellow  men?"  asked  Eobert 
sadly. 


CHAPTEK  VII. 


's 
's 


in 


For  a  day  or  two  previous  to  the  conversation  of  the 
brothers  about  Alec's  decision.  Alec  had  been  debating  in 
his  own  mind  what,  after  all,  that  decision  had  better  be. 
Never  had  he  come  so  near  doubting  the  principle  to  which 
he  adhered  as  at  this  time.  A  few  days  went  a  long  way  in 
Chellaston  towards  making  a  stranger,  especially  if  he  was 
a  young  man  with  good  introduction,  feel  at  home  there, 
and  the  open  friendliness  of  Chellaston  society,  acting  like 
the  sun  in  ^sop's  fable,  had  almost  made  this  traveller 
take  off  his  coat.     Had  Eobert  been  a  person  who  had 


352  IVHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [hook  hi 

formerly  agreed  with  him,  it  is  probable  that  when  the 
subject  was  oi)ened,  he  would  liave  confessed  the  dubious 
condition  of  his  lieart,  and  they  would  togetlier  have  very 
carefully  considered  the  advisability  of  change  of  plan. 
Wliether  the  ui)shot  in  that  case  would  have  been  different 
or  not,  it  is  impossible  to  say,  for  Kobert  had  not  formerly 
agreed  witli  liim,  and  could  not  now  be  assumed  to  do  so, 
and  therefore  for  Alec,  as  a  part  of  militant  humanity,  tliere 
was  no  resource  but  to  stand  to  his  guns,  forgetting  for  tlie 
time  the  weakness  in  his  own  camp,  because  he  had  no 
thought  of  betraying  it  to  the  enemy.  He  who  considers 
such  incidents  (they  are  the  common  sands  of  life),  and  yet 
looks  upon  the  natural  heart  of  man  as  a  very  noble  thing, 
would  appear  to  be  an  optimist. 

However  that  may  be,  the  conversation  ended.  Alec's 
heart  stood  no  longer  in  the  doubtful  attitude.  There  are 
those  who  look  upon  confessions  and  vows  as  of  little 
importance;  but  even  in  the  lower  affairs  of  life,  when  a 
healthy  man  has  said  out  what  he  means,  he  commonly 
means  it  more  intensely.  When  Alec  Trenholme  had  told 
his  brother  that  he  still  intended  to  be  a  butcher,  the  thing 
for  him  was  practically  done,  and  that,  not  because  he  would 
have  been  ashamed  to  retract,  but  because  he  had  no  further 
wish  to  retract. 

"And  the  mair  fules  ye  are  baith,"  said  Bates,  having 
recourse  to  broad  Scotch  to  express  his  indignation  when 
told  what  had  passed. 

It  was  out  of  good  nature  that  Alec  had  told  the  one 
invalid  what  had  been  going  on  in  the  other's  room,  but 
Bates  was  only  very  much  annoyed. 

"I  thought,"  said  he,  "that  ye'd  got  that  bee  out  of  yer 
ain  bonnet,  but  ye're  baith  of  ye  daft  now." 

"  Come  now,  Bates ;  you  wouldn't  dare  to  say  that  to  my 
*  brother,  the  clergyman.'  " 

"  I  know  more  what's  due  than  to  call  a  minister  a  fule  to 
his  face,  but  whiles  it's  necessary  to  say  it  behind  his 
back." 


CHAP.  VIl] 


IVHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


353 


rer 


;ny 


"Now  I  cull  him  a  hero,  after  what  he's  said  to-day." 

Alec  was  enjoying  the  humour  of  poking  up  the  giant  of 
conventionality. 

"Hoots,  man;  it's  yourself  ye  regard  as  a  hero!  Set 
yerself  uj)  as  a  Juggernaut  on  a  car  and  crush  liim  under 
the  wheels !  " 

"  Oh,  I'm  going  to  IJritisli  Columbia.  I  won't  take  him 
at  his  word;  but  I'm  })lease(l  he  had  pluck  enough  to  think 
of  taking  the  bull  by  the  horns." 

"But  I'm  thinking  ye  just  will  take  him  at  his  word,  for 
it's  the  easiest — standing  there,  patting  him  on  the  back, 
because  he's  given  up  to  you!  " 

It  was  as  odd  a  household  this  as  well  might  be.  Alec 
spent  some  of  his  time  offering  rough  ministrations  to  his 
lame  brother  and  asthmatic  visitor,  but  more  often  left  them 
to  the  sad  but  conscientious  care  of  Mrs.  Martha,  preferring 
to  exercise  his  brother's  horses;  and  he  scoured  the  country, 
escaping  from  social  overtures  he  did  not  feel  prepared  to 
meet.  To  all  three  ihen  Mrs.  Martha  was  at  this  time  an 
object  of  silent  wonder.  Before  the  Adventist  disturbance 
she  had  appeared  a  very  commonplace  person;  now,  as  they 
saw  her  going  about  her  daily  work,  grim  in  her  complete 
reserve,  questions  which  could  hardly  be  put  into  words 
arose  in  their  minds  concerning  her.  She  suggested  to 
them  such  pictorial  ideas  as  one  gleans  in  childhood  about 
the  end  of  the  world,  and  this  quite  without  any  effort  on 
their  part,  but  just  because  she  had  clothed  herself  to  their 
eyes  in  such  ideas.  Bates,  who  had  exact  opinions  on  all 
points  of  theology,  tackled  her  upon  what  he  termed  "  her 
errors  " ;  but,  perhaps  because  he  had  little  breath  to  give 
to  the  cause,  the  other  two  inmates  of  the  house  could  not 
learn  that  he  had  gained  any  influence  over  her  or  any  addi- 
tional information  as  to  her  state  of  mind. 

Bates  himself  was  so  incongruous  an  element  in  Principal 
Trenholme's  house  that  it  became  evident  he  could  not  be 
induced  to  remain  there  long.  Sufficiently  intelligent  to 
appreciate  thoroughly  any  tokens  of  ease  or  education,  he 


354  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [hook  hi 

was  too  proud  not  to  resent  them  involuntarily  as  implying 
inferiority  on  his  own  i)iirt.  ITe  had,  to  a  certain  (h'groo, 
fine  perception  of  what  good  manners  involved,  but  he  was 
not  suHloiently  simple  to  aet  without  self-conscious  awk- 
wardness when  he  supposed  any  d(!viation  from  his  ordinary 
habits  to  be  called  fur.  Had  he  not  been  miserable  in  mind 
and  body  he  might  have  taken  more  kindly  to  carpets  and 
china;  but  as  it  was,  he  longed,  as  a  homesick  man  for 
home,  for  bare  floors  and  the  unccu-emoniousness  that  comes 
with  tin  mugs  and  a  scarcity  of  plates. 

For  home  as  it  existed  for  liim — the  desolate  lake  and 
hills,  the  childish  crone  and  rude  hearth — for  these  he  did 
not  long.  It  was  his  home,  that  place;  for  into  it — into 
the  splashing  lake  and  lonely  woods,  into  the  contour  of 
the  hills,  and  into  the  very  logs  of  which  the  house  was 
built — he  had  put  as  much  of  himself  as  can  be  absorbed  by 
outside  things;  but  just  because  to  return  there  would  be  to 
return  to  his  mind's  external  habitat,  he  could  not  now  take 
comfort  in  returning.  All  the  multiform  solace  it  might 
have  yielded  him  had  been  blatsted  by  the  girl  from  the 
hotel,  who  had  visited  him  in  secret.  Before  he  had  seen 
Sissy  again  his  one  constant  longing  had  been  to  get  done 
with  necessary  business,  financial  and  medical,  and  go  back 
to  his  place,  where  sorrow  and  he  could  dwell  at  peace 
together.  He  would  still  go,  for  he  cherished  one  of  those 
nervous  ideas  common  with  sick  men,  that  he  could  breathe 
there  and  nowhere  else;  but  he  hated  the  place  that  was 
now  rife  with  memories  far  more  unrestful  and  galling  than 
memories  of  the  dead  can  ever  be. 
j    i  He  hugged  to  himself  no  flattering  delusion;  in  his  judg- 

ment Sissy  had  shown  herself  heartless  and  cruel;  but  he 
did  not  therefore  argue,  as  a  man  of  politer  mind  might 
have  done,  that  the  girl  he  had  loved  had  never  existed- 
that  he  had  loved  an  idea  and,  finding  it  had  no  resemblance 
to  the  reality,  he  was  justified  in  casting  away  both,  and 
turning  to  luxurious  disappointment  or  to  a  search  for  some 
more  worthy  recipient  of  the  riches  of  his  heart.     No  such 


CIIAI'.  Vll] 


WHAT  NLCJCSSITV  KNOIVS 


355 


Idg- 

he 

gilt 

Ince 
md 

^me 
icli 


train  of  reasoning  oi'curi'ed  to  liini.  He  had  tliought  Sissy 
was  good  and  nnloi'tunate;  he  iiad  I'onnd  her  fortunate  and 
guilty  of  an  ahnost  greiiter  (U'grcc  of  eallousness  than  he 
eouhl  forgive;  but,  nevertheless,  Sissy  was  the  person  he 
loved — his  little  girl,  whom  he  had  brought  up,  his  big  girl, 
in  whom  he  centred  all  ids  ho[)es  of  happy  home  and  of 
years  of  nuiture  affection.  Sissy  was  still  alive,  and  he 
eould  not  endure  to  think  of  her  living  on  wholly  separated 
from  him.  For  this  reason  his  mind  iiad  no  rest  in  the 
thought  of  remaining  where  he  was,  or  of  returning  whence 
lie  had  come,  or  in  the  dream  of  seeking  new  places,  lie 
could  think  of  no  satisfaction  excei)t  that  of  being  near  to 
her  and  making  her  a  better  girl;  yet  he  had  promised  to 
have  no  dealings  with  her;  and  not  only  that,  but  he  now 
at  length  perceived  the  futility  of  all  such  care  as  he  might 
exercise  over  her.  lie  had  thought  to  shield  her  by  liis 
knowledge  of  the  world,  and  he  had  found  that  she,  by 
natural  common  sense,  had  a  better  knowledge  of  the  world 
than  he  by  experience;  he  had  thought  to  protect  her  by 
his  strong  arm,  and  he  had  found  himself  flung  off,  as  she 
might  have  flung  a  feeble  thing  that  clung  to  her  for  protec- 
tion. She  was  better  able  to  take  care  of  herself  in  the 
world  than  he  had  been  to  take  care  of  her,  and  she  did  not 
w\ant  his  tenderness.  Yet  he  loved  her  just  as  he  had  ever 
done,  and  perceived,  in  the  deep  Avell  of  his  heart's  love 
and  pity,  that  she  did,  in  sooth,  need  something — a  tenderer 
heart  it  might  be — need  it;  more  terribly  than  he  had  ever 
fancied  need  till  now.  He  longed  unspeakably  to  give  her 
this — this  crown  of  womanhood,  which  she  lacked,  and  in 
the  helplessnesr'  of  this  longing  his  heart  was  pining. 

"A  man  isn't  going  to  die  because  he  has  asthma,"  had 
been  the  doctor's  fiat  concerning  Bates.  He  had  come  to 
Chellaston  apparently  so  ill  that  neither  he  nor  his  friends 
would  have  been  much  surprised  had  death  been  the  order 
of  the  day,  but  as  the  programme  was  life,  not  death,  he 
was  forced  to  plan  accordingly.  His  plans  were  not  elabo- 
rate j  he  would  go  back  to  the  clearing;  lie  would  take  his 


356 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[rook  III 


I   I 


;   ll 


! 


aunt  back  from  Turrifs  to  be  with  him;  he  would  live  as  he 
had  lived  before. 

Would  he  not  sell  the  land?  they  asked;  for  the  price 
offered  for  it  was  good,  and  the  lonely  life  seemed  unde- 
sirable. 

No,  he  would  not  sell.  It  would,  he  said,  be  selling  a 
bit  of  himself;  and  if  there  was  value  in  it,  it  would 
increase,  not  diminish,  by  holding  till  the  country  was 
opened  up.  When  he  was  d-^ad,  his  heirs,  be  they  who  they 
might  (this  he  said  mysteriously),  could  do  as  they  would. 
As  for  him,  he  would  take  a  man  back  from  this  part  of  the 
country  to  work  in  Alec's  place.  His  cough  he  said,  had 
been  worse  since  he  had  been  beguiled  into  leaving  his 
wilderness  to  travel  with  Alec;  the  pure  air  of  the  solitude 
would  be  better  than  doctors  for  him. 

The  journey  into  which  Alec  had  beguiled  him  had 
already  had  three  results :  he  had  sold  his  lumber  at  a  good 
price;  had  found  out,  by  talking  with  business  men  at  Que- 
bec, what  the  real  value  of  his  land  probably  was,  and  would 
be ;  and  had  been  put  by  Dr.  Nash  into  a  right  way  of  think- 
ing concerning  his  disease  and  its  treatment,  that  would 
stand  him  in  good  stead  for  years  to  come;  but  none  of 
these  goodly  results  did  he  mention  v/lien  he  summed  up 
the  evils  and  discomforts  of  the  trip  in  Alec's  hearing.  If 
his  irascible  talk  was  the  index  to  his  mind,  certainly  any 
virtue  Alec  had  exerciseu  wa^d  him  would  need  to  be  its 
own  reward. 

He  offered  to  pay  Alec  his  wages  up  to  the  time  of  their 
arrival  in  Chellaston,  becouse  he  had  looked  after  him  in  his 
feebleness,  and  he  talked  of  paying  "  The  Principal "  for 
his  board  daring  his  sojourn  there.  When  they  treated 
these  offers  lightl^;,  he  sulked,  mightily  offended.  He 
woMld  have  given  his  life,  had  it  been  necessary,  for  either 
of  the  brothers,  because  of  the  succour  they  had  lent  him; 
nay  more,  had  they  come  to  him  in  need  a  life-time  after- 
wards, whon  most  men  would  have  had  time  to  forget  their 
bonefaction  many  times  over,  John  Bates  would  have  laid 


CHAP.  Vlii]  WHAT  NECESSn^y  KAVll'S 


357 


himself,  and  all  that  he  had,  at  their  «'u,posal;  but  he  was 
too  proud  to  say  "  thank  you  "  for  what  they  liad  done  for 
him,  or  to  confess  that  he  had  never  been  so  well  treated  in 
his  life  before. 

During  his  first  days  in  Chellaston  he  was  hardly  able  to 
leave  his  own  room;  but  all  the  time  he  talked  constantly  of 
leaving  the  place  as  soon  as  he  was  well  enough  to  do  so; 
and  the  only  reason  that  he  did  not  bring  his  will  to  bear 
upon  his  lagging  health,  and  fix  tlie  day  of  departure,  was 
that  he  could  not  compel  liimself  to  leave  the  place  where 
Sissy  was.  He  knew  he  must  go,  yet  he  could  not.  One 
more  interview  with  her  he  must  have,  one  more  at  least 
before  he  left  Chellaston.  Pie  could  not  devise  any  way  to 
bring  this  about  without  breaking  his  promise  to  her,  but 
his  intention  never  faltered — see  her  he  must,  if  only  once, 
and  ro  the  days  passed,  las  mental  agitation  acting  as  a  drag 
on  the  wheels  of  his  rccoverv. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


any 
)e  its 

Itheir 
In  his 
''  for 
leated 
He 
iither 
I  him; 
ifter- 
I  their 
laid 


When  Alec  Trenholme  had  had  the  \<.Q^j  of  the  Harmon 
house  in  his  possession  some  days,  he  Avent  one  evening, 
beguiled  by  the  charm  of  the  weather  and  by  curiosity,  for 
the  first  time  into  the  Harmon  garden.  He  wished  to  look 
over  the  rooms  that  were  of  some  interest  to  him  because  of 
one  of  their  late  inmates,  and  having  procrastinated,  he 
thought  to  carry  out  his  intention  now,  in  the  last  hour 
before  darkness  came  en,  in  order  to  return  the  key  that 
night. 

The  path  up  to  the  house  was  lightly  barred  by  the  wild 
vine,  that,  climbing  on  overgrown  shrubs  on  either  side,  had 
more  than  once  cast  its  tendrils  across.  A  trodden  pa.  h  there 
was  in  and  out  the  bushes,  although  not  the  straight  original 
one,  and  by  following  it  Alec  gained  the  open  space  before 
the  house.     Here  self-sown  magenta  petunias  made  banks 


3S8  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  hi 

of  colour  against  the  old  brick  walls,  and  the  evening  light, 
just  turning  rosy,  fell  thereon.  He  could  not  see  the  river, 
although  he  heard  it  flowing  behind  a  further  mass  of 
bushes.  He  stood  alone  with  the  old  house  in  the  opening 
that  was  enclosed  by  shrubs  and  trees  so  ful""  of  leaf  that 
they  looked  like  giant  heaps  of  leaves,  and  it  seemed  to  him 
that,  if  earth  might  have  an  enchanted  place,  he  had  surely 
entered  it.  Then,  remembering  that  the  light  would  not 
last  long,  he  fitted  the  key  to  the  door  and  went  in. 

Outside,  nature  had  done  her  work,  but  inside  the  ugly 
wall-paper  and  turned  bannisters  of  a  modern  villa  had  not 
been  much  beautified  by  dust  and  neglect.  Still,  there  is 
something  in  the  atmosphere  of  a  long  neglect  that  to  the 
mind,  if  not  to  the  eye,  has  softening  effect.  Alec  listened 
a  moment,  as  it  were,  to  the  silence  and  loneliness  of  the 
house,  and  went  into  the  first  dark  room. 

It  was  a  large  room,  probably  a  parlour  of  some  preten- 
sion, but  the  only  light  came  through  the  door  and  lit  it 
very  faintly.  All  the  wir  aws  of  the  house  were  shut  with 
wooden  shutters,  and  Alec,  not  being  aware  that,  except  in 
the  rooms  Harkness  had  occupied,  the  shutters  were  nailed, 
went  to  a  window  to  open  it.  He  fumbled  with  the  hasp, 
and,  concluding  that  he  did  not  understand  its  working, 
went  on  into  the  next  room  to  see  if  the  window  there  was 
to  be  more  easily  managed.  In  this  next  room  he  was  in 
almost  total  darkness.  He  had  not  reached  the  window 
before  he  heard  some  one  moving  in  an  adjoining  room. 
Turning,  he  saw  a  door  outlined  by  cracks  of  lamplight,  and 
as  it  was  apparent  that  some  one  else  was  in  the  house,  he 
made  at  once  for  this  door.  Before  he  had  reached  it  the 
cracks  of  light  which  guided  him  were  gone;  and  wlien  he 
had  opened  it,  the  room  on  whose  thresliold  he  stood  was 
dark  and  silent;  yet,  whether  by  some  slight  sounds,  or  by 
some  subtler  sense  for  which  we  have  no  name,  he  was  con- 
vinced that  there  was  some  one  in  it.  Indignant  at  the 
extinction  of  the  light  and  at  the  silence,  he  turned  ener- 
getically again  in  the  direction  of  the  window  in  order  to 


CHAP.  VIII]  IVHAT  NECESSITY  k'NOll'S 


359 


111 
ed, 
asp, 

was 
s  ill 
(low 
:)oni. 


the 
n  he 

was 
I'by 
con- 

Ithe 
ner- 
51-  to 


wrench  it  open,  when,  liearing  a  slight  scratching  sound,  he 
looked  back  into  the  inner  room.  There  was  light  there 
again,  but  only  a  small  vaporous  curl  of  light.  Connecting 
this  with  the  sound,  he  supposed  that  a  poor  sulphur  match 
had  been  struck;  but  this  supposition  perhaps  came  to  him 
later,  for  at  the  moment  lie  was  dazed  by  seeing  in  this 
small  light  the  same  face  he  had  seen  over  old  Cameron's 
coffin.  The  sight  he  had  had  of  it  then  had  almost  faded 
from  his  memory;  he  had  put  it  from  him  as  a  thing 
improbable,  and  therefore  imaginary;  now  it  came  before 
his  eyes  distinctly.  A  man's  face  it  certainly  was  not, 
and,  in  the  fleet  moment  in  which  he  saw  it  now,  he  felt 
certain  that  it  was  a  woman's.  The  match,  if  it  was  a 
match,  went  out  before  its  wood  was  well  kindled,  and  all 
he  could  see  vanished  from  sight  with  its  light.  His  only 
thought  was  that  whoever  had  escaped  him  before  should  not 
escape  him  again,  and  he  broke  open  the  window  shutters 
by  main  strength. 

The  light  poured  in  upon  a  set  of  empty  rooms,  faded  and 
dusty.  A  glance  showed  him  an  open  door  at  the  back  of 
the  farthest  room,  and  rushing  through  this,  he  opened  the 
windows  in  that  part  of  the  house  which  had  evidently  been 
lately  inhabited.  He  next  came  into  the  hall  by  which  lie 
had  entered,  and  out  again  at  the  front  door,  with  no  doubt 
that  he  was  chasing  some  uiie,  but  he  did  not  gain  in  the 
pursuit.  He  went  down  the  path  to  the  road,  looking  up 
and  down  it;  he  came  back,  in  ond  out  among  the  bushes, 
searching  the  cemetery  and  river  bank,  vexed  beyond  meas- 
ure all  the  time  to  perceive  how  easy  it  would  be  for  any 
one  to  go  one  way  while  he  was  searching  in  another,  for 
the  garden  was  large. 

He  had  good  reason  to  feel  that  he  was  the  victim  of  most 
annoying  circumstances,  and  he  naturally  could  not  at  once 
perceive  how  it  behoved  him  to  act  in  relation  to  ♦"his  new 
scene  in  the  almost  forgotten  drama.  Cameron  was  dead; 
the  old  preacher  was  dead;  whether  they  were  one  and  the 
same  or  not,  who  was  this  person  who  now  for  the  second 


:  ,; 


36o  WHAT  NEC  ESS /TV  KNOWS  [book  ill 

time  suddenly  started  up  in  mysterious  fashion  after  the 
death?  Alec  assumed  that  it  could  be  no  one  but  Cameron's 
daughter,  but  when  he  tried  to  think  how  it  miglit  be  pos- 
sible that  she  should  be  in  the  deserted  house,  ujjon  the 
track  of  the  old  preacher,  as  it  were,  his  mind  failed  even 
to  conjecture. 

The  explanation  wa^.  comparatively  simple,  if  he  had 
known  it,  but  he  did  not  know  it.  Someone  has  said  that 
the  man  most  assured  of  his  own  truthfulness  is  not  usually 
truthful ;  and  in  the  same  sense  it  is  true  that  the  man  most 
positive  in  trusting  his  own  senses  is  not  usually  reliable. 
Alec  Trenholme  flagged  in  his  search;  a  most  unpleasing 
doubt  came  to  him  as  to  whether  he  had  seen  what  he 
thought  he  saw  and  was  not  now  playing  hide-and-seek  witli 
the  rosy  evening  sunbeams  among  these  bushes,  driven  by  a 
freak  of  diseased  fancy.  He  was  indeed  provoked  to  a 
degree  almost  beyond  control,  when,  in  ?  last  effort  of 
search  through  the  dense  shrubbery,  he  skirted  the  fence  of 
Captain  Rexford's  nearest  field,  and  there  espied  Sophia 
Rexford. 

Those  people  are  happy  who  have  found  some  person  or 
thing  on  earth  that  embodies  their  ideal  of  earthly  solace. 
To  some  it  is  the  strains  of  music;  to  some  it  is  the  interior 
of  church  edifices;  to  the  child  it  is  his  mother;  to  the 
friend  it  is  his  friend.  As  soon  as  Alec  Trenholme  saw  this 
fair  woman,  whom  he  yet  scarcely  knew,  all  the  fret  of  his 
spirit  found  vent  in  the  sudden  desire  to  tell  her  what  was 
vexing  him,  very  much  as  a  child  desires  to  tell  its  troubles 
and  be  comforted. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


That  evening  Mrs.  Rexford  and  Sophia  had  been  sitting 
sewing,  as  they  often  did,  under  a  tree  near  the  house. 
Sophia  had  mused  and  stitched.  Then  there  came  a  time 
when  her  hands  fell  idle,  and  she  looked  off  at  the  '=<cene 


CHAP.  IX] 


tVHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


361 


Iting 

]use. 

bime 

3eiie 


before  her.  It  was  the  hour  when  the  sun  has  set,  and  the 
light  is  not  less  than  daylight  hut  mellower.  She  observed 
with  pleasure  how  high  the  hops  had  grown  that  she  had 
planted  against  the  gables  of  the  house  and  dairies.  On 
this  side  the  house  there  was  no  yard,  only  the  big  hay- 
fields  from  which  the  hay  had  been  taken  a  month  before ; 
in  them  were  trees  here  and  there,  and  beyond  she  saw  the 
running  river.  She  had  seen  it  all  every  day  that  summer, 
yet 

"I  think  I  never  saw  the  place  look  so  nice,"  she  said  to 
her  step-mother. 

Dottie  came  walking  unsteadily  over  the  thick  grass. 
She  had  found  an  ox-daisy  and  a  four-o'clock. 

"Here!  take  my  pretties,"  she  said  imperiously. 

Sophia  took  them. 

"They's  to  be  blowed,"  said  Dottie,  not  yet  distinguish- 
ing duly  the  different  uses  of  ilowers  or  of  words. 

Sophia  obediently  blew,  and  the  down  of  the  four-o'clock 
was  scattered  into  space;  but  the  daisy,  impervious  to  the 
blast,  remained  iu  ^he  slender  hand  that  held  it.  Dottie 
looked  at  it  with  indignation. 

"Blow  again!"  was  her  mandate,  and  Sophia,  to  please 
her,  plucked  the  white  petals  one  by  one,  so  that  they  might 
be  scattered.  It  was  not  wonderful  that,  as  she  did  so,  the 
foolish  old  charm  of  her  school-days  sliould  say  itself  over 
in  her  mind,  and  the  lot  fell  upon  ''  He  loves  me."  "  Who, 
I  wonder?"  thought  Sophia,  lightly  fanciful;  and  she  did 
not  care  to  think  of  the  wealthy  suitor  she  had  cast  aside. 
Her  mind  glanced  to  Robert  Trenholme.  "  No,"  she  thought, 
"he  loves  me  not."  She  meditated  on  him  a  little.  Such 
thoughts,  however  transient,  in  a  woman  of  twenty-eight, 
are  different  from  the  same  thoughts  when  they  come  to  her 
at  eighteen.  If  she  be  good,  they  are  deeper,  as  the  river  is 
deeper  than  tlie  rivulet;  better,  as  the  poem  of  the  poet  is 
better  than  the  songs  of  his  youth.  Tlien  for  some  reason 
— the  mischief  of  idleness,  perhaps — Sopliia  thought  of 
Trenholnie's  young  brother — ^liow  he  had  looked  when  he 


)  ■ 


362 


WHAT  NEC  ESS/TV  KNOWS 


[book  III 


spoke  to  her  over  tlie  fence.  She  rose  to  move  away  from 
such  silly  thoughts. 

Dottie  possessed  herself  of  two  fingers  and  pulled  hard 
toward  the  river.  Dearly  did  she  love  the  river-side,  and 
mamma,  who  was  very  cruel,  would  not  allow  her  to  go 
there  without  a  grown-up  companion. 

When  she  and  her  big  sister  reached  the  river  they  dif- 
fered as  to  the  next  step,  Dottie  desiring  to  go  on  into  the 
water,  and  Sophia  deeming  it  expedient  to  go  back  over  the 
field.  As  each  was  in  an  indolent  mood,  they  both  gave 
way  a  little  and  split  the  difference  by  wandering  along  the 
waterside,  conversing  softly  about  many  things — as  to  how 
long  it  would  take  the  seed  of  the  four-o'clock  to  "sail 
away,  away,  over  the  river,"  and  why  a  nice  brown  frog  tliat 
they  came  across  was  not  getting  ready  for  bed  like  the 
birdies.  There  is  no  such  sweet  distraction  as  an  excursion 
into  Children's  Land,  and  Sophia  wandered  quite  away  with 
this  talkative  baby,  until  she  found  herself  suddenly  cast 
out  of  Dottie 's  magic  province  as  she  stood  beyond  the  trees 
that  edged  the  first  field  not  far  from  the  fence  of  the 
Harmon  garden.  And  that  which  had  broken  the  spell  was 
the  appearance  of  Alec  Trenholme.  He  came  right  up  to 
her,  as  if  he  had  something  of  importance  to  say,  but  either 
shyness  or  a  difficulty  in  introducing  his  subject  made 
him  hesitate.  Something  in  his  look  caused  her  to  ask 
lightly : 

"Have  you  seen  a  ghost?" 

"Yes." 

"Are  you  in  earnest?" 

"I  am  in  earnest,  and,"  added  he,  somewhat  dubiously, 
"I  think  I  am  in  my  right  mind." 

He  did  not  say  more  just  then,  but  looked  up  and  down 
the  road  in  his  search  for  someone.  In  a  moment  he  turned 
to  her,  and  a  current  of  amusement  seemed  to  cross  his 
mind  and  gleamed  out  of  his  blue  eyes  as  he  lifted  them  to 
hers.  "  I  believe  when  I  saw  you  I  came  to  you  for  protec- 
tion." 


'.a 


I 


CHAP.  IX] 


IVIIAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


3^^2, 


piously, 

Id  down 

turned 

loss  liis 

tliem  to 

protec- 


Tlio  light  from  pink  tracts  of  sunset  fell  brightly  upon 
fit4d  and  river,  but  this  couple  did  not  notice  it  at  all. 

"  There  is  no  bogie  so  fearful  as  the  unknown,"  she  cried. 
"You  frightened  me,  Mr.  Trenholme." 

"There  is  no  bogie  in  the  case,"  he  said,  "nor  ghost  I 
sup])Ose;  but  I  saw  someone.  1  don't  know  how  to  tell 
you;  it  begins  so  far  back,  and  I  may  alarm  you  when  I 
tell  you  that  there  must  be  someone  in  this  neighbourhood 
of  yours  who  has  no  right  to  be  here."  Then  to  her  eager 
listening  he  told  the  story  that  he  had  once  written  to  his 
brother,  and  added  to  it  the  unlooked-for  experience  of  the 
last  half -hour.  His  relation  lacked  clearness  of  construc- 
tion. Sophia  had  to  make  it  lucid  by  short  quick  questions 
here  and  there. 

"I'm  no  good,"  lie  concluded,  deprecating  his  own  recital. 
"Robert  has  all  the  language  that's  in  our  family;  but  do 
you  know,  miss,  what  it  is  to  see  a  face,  and  know  that  you 
know  it  again,  though  you  can't  say  what  it  was  like? 
Have  you  the  least  notion  how  you  would  feel  on  being 
fooled  a  second  time  like  that?" 

The  word  of  address  that  he  had  let  fall  struck  her  ear 
as  something  inexplicable  which  she  had  not  then  time  to 
investigate;  she  was  aware,  too,  that,  as  he  spoke  fast  and 
warmly,  his  voice  dropped  into  some  vulgarity  of  accent 
that  she  had  not  noticed  in  it  before.  These  thoughts 
glanced  through  her  mind,  but  found  no  room  to  stay, 
for  there  are  few  things  that  can  so  absorb  for  the  time 
a  mind  alive  to  its  surroundings  as  a  bit  of  genuine 
romance,  a  fragment  of  a  life,  or  lives,  that  does  not 
seem  to  bear  explanation  by  the  ordinary  rules  of  our 
experience. 

That  mind  is  dulled,  not  ripened,  by  time  that  does  not 
enter  witli  zest  into  a  strange  story,  and  the  more  if  it  is 
true.  If  we  could  only  learn  it,  the  most  trivial  action  of 
personality  is  more  worthy  of  our  attention  than  the  most 
magnificent  of  impersonal  phenomena,  and,  in  healthy  peo- 
ple, this  truth,  all  unknown,  probably  underlies  that  excite- 


364 


WHAT  NEC  ESS/TV  KNOIVS 


[book  III 


ment  of  interest  wliicli  tlie  affairs  of  neighbours  create  the 
moment  they  become  in  any  way  surprising. 

Sophia  certainly  did  not  stop  to  seek  an  excuse  for  her 
interest.  She  plied  Alec  with  questions;  she  moved  with 
him  nearer  tlie  Harmon  fence  to  get  a  better  look  at  the 
house;  she  assured  him  that  Cliellaston  was  the  last  place 
in  the  world  to  harbour  an  adventurer. 

He  was  a  little  loth,  for  the  sake  of  all  the  pathos  of 
Bates's  story,  to  suggest  the  suspicion  that  had  recurred. 

"  I  saw  the  face  twice.  It  was  first  at  Turrifs  Station,  far 
enough  away  from  here ;  and  I  saw  it  again  in  this  house. 
As  sure  as  I'm  alive,  I  believe  it  was  a  woman." 

They  stood  on  the  verge  of  the  field  where  the  grass 
sloped  back  from  the  river.  Sophia  held  the  little  child's 
hand  in  hers.  The  dusk  was  gathering,  and  still  they  talked 
on,  she  questioning  and  exclaiming  with  animation,  he  eager 
to  enter  the  house  again,  a  mutual  interest  holding  their 
minds  as  one. 

He  began  to  move  again  impatiently.  He  wanted  a 
candle  with  which  to  search  the  rooms  more  carefully,  and 
if  nothing  was  found,  he  said,  he  would  go  to  the  village 
and  make  what  inquiries  he  could ;  he  would  leave  no  stone 
unturned. 

Sophia  would  not  let  him  go  alone.  She  was  already  on 
perfectly  familiar  terms  with  him.  He  seemed  to  her  a 
delightful  mixture  of  the  ardent  boy  and  the  man  whp,  as 
she  understood  it,  was  roughened  by  lumberman's  life. 
She  lifted  Dottie  on  her  shoulder  and  turned  homeward. 
"I  will  only  be  a  few  minutes  getting  Harold  and  some 
candles;  don't  go  without  us,  I  beg  of  you,"  she  pleaded. 

He  never  thought  of  offering  to  carry  the  child,  or  call 
her  brother  for  her;  his  ideas  of  gallantry  were  submerged 
in  the  confusion  of  Ids  thoughts.  He  watched  her  tripping 
lightly  v/ith  the  child  on  her  shoulder.  He  saw  her  choose 
a  path  by  the  back  of  the  white  dairy  buildings,  and  then 
he  heard  her  clear  voice  calling,  "Haiold!  Harold!"  All 
up  the  yard's  length  to  ^*indows  of  house  and  stable  he 


in 

:lie 

her 
rith 
the 
lace 

s  of 
d. 

I,  far 
ouse. 

grass 
liild's 
ialked 

eager 

their 

ited  a 
y,  and 

illage 

stone 

|ady  on 

her  a 

rho,  as 

s  life. 

leward. 

|d  some 

jaded, 
or  call 
)merged 

;rrpping 
choose 
Ind  then 
ll "     All 
:able  he 


CHAP.  X] 


IVHAT  NEC  ESS /TV  KNOWS 


365 


heard  lier  calling,  till  at  length  came  the  answering  shout. 
In  the  silence  that  followed  he  remembered,  with  a  feeling 
of  wonder,  the  shudder  of  distaste  that  had  come  over  him 
when  he  found  that  the  other  creature  with  whom  he  had 
been  dealing  bore  a  woman's  form.  lie  could  not  endure  to 
think  of  her  in  the  same  moment  in  which  he  longed  to  hear 
Miss  Rexford's  voice  again  and  to  see  her  come  back.  In 
the  one  case  he  could  not  believe  that  evil  was  not  the 
foundation  of  such  eccentricity  of  mystery;  in  the  other 
he  thought  nothing,  realised  nothing,  he  only  longed  for 
Sophia's  return,  as  at  times  one  longs  for  cool  air  upon  the 
temples,  for  balm  of  nature's  distilling.  He  never  thought 
that  because  Sophia  was  a  woman  she  would  be  sure  to  keep 
him  waiting  and  forget  the  candle.  He  felt  satisfied  she 
would  do  just  what  she  said,  and  even  to  his  impatience  the 
minutes  did  not  seem  long  before  he  saw  her  return  round 
the  same  corner  of  the  outbuildings,  her  brother  beside  her, 
lantern  in  hand. 

So  in  the  waning  daylight  the  three  went  together  to  the 
Harmon  house,  and  found  torn  bits  of  letters  scattered  on 
floor  and  window-sill  near  the  spot  where  Alec  had  last 
seen  the  unlooked-for  apparition.  The  letters,  to  all  ap- 
pearance, had  belonged  to  the  dentist,  but  they  were  torn 
very  small.  The  three  searched  the  house  all  through  by 
the  light  of  more  than  one  candle,  and  came  out  again  into 
the  darkness  of  the  summer  night,  for  the  time  nothing 
wiser  concerning  the  mystery,  but  feeling  entirely  at  home 
with  one  another.  ' 


CHAPTER  X. 


Although  Mrs.  Rexford  had  been  without  an  indoor 
servant  for  several  months  01  the  winter,  she  had  been  for- 
tunate enough  to  secure  one  for  the  summer.  Her  dairy 
had  not  yet  reached  the  point  of  producing  marketable 
wares,  but  it  supplied  the  family  and  farm   hands   with 


366 


WHAT  A7'X7:SS/Ti'  AWOlt'S 


[HOOK  III 


iiiilk  and  butter,  and,  since  the  cows  liad  been  bought  in 
spring,  the  one  serving  girl  had  acconiplishcMl  this  amount 
of  dairy  work  satisfactorily.  Tlie  day  after  Sophia  and 
Harold  had  made  tlieir  evening  excursion  tlirough  the 
Harmon  house,  this  maid  by  reason  of  some  ailment  was 
laid  up,  and  the  (iows  became  for  the  first  time  a  ditlieulty 
to  the  household,  for  the  art  of  milking  was  not  to  be 
learnt  in  an  hour,  and  it  had  not  yet  been  ac(j[uired  by  any 
member  of  the  Kexford  family. 

Harold  was  of  course  in  the  fields.  Sophia  went  to  the 
village  to  see  if  she  could  induce  anyone  to  come  to  their 
aid ;  but,  hard  as  it  was  to  obtain  service  at  any  time,  in 
the  weeks  of  harvest  it  was  an  impossibility.  When  she 
returned,  she  went  in  by  tlie  lane,  the  yard,  and  the  kitchen 
door.  All  the  family  had  fallen  into  the  liabit  of  using 
this  door  more  than  any  other.  Such  habits  speak  for 
themselves. 

"  Mamma !  " — she  took  off  her  gloves  energetically  as  she 
spoke — "there  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  ask  Louise  to  get  up 
and  do  the  milking — the  mere  milking — and  I  will  carry 
the  pails." 

Louise  was  the  pale-faced  Canadian  servant.  She  often 
told  them  she  preferred  to  be  called  "Loulou,"  but  in  this 
she  was  not  indulged. 

Mrs.  Kexford  stirred  Dottie's  porridge  in  a  small  sauce- 
pan. Said  she,  "When  Gertrude  Bennett  is  forced  to  milk 
her  cows,  she  waits  till  after  dark;  her  mother  told  me  so 
in  confidence.  Yes,  child,  yes  " — this  was  to  Dottie  who, 
beginning  to  v/himper,  put  an  end  to  the  conversation. 

Sophia  did  not  wait  till  after  dark:  it  might  be  an  excel- 
lent way  for  Miss  Bennett,  but  it  was  not  her  way.  Neither 
did  she  ask  her  younger  sisters  to  help  her,  for  she  knew 
that  if  caught  in  the  act  by  any  acquaintance  the  girls  were 
at  an  age  to  feel  an  acute  distress.  She  succeeded,  b}'-  the 
administration  of  tea  and  tonic,  in  coaxing  the  servant  to 
perform  her  part.  Having  slightly  caught  up  her  skirts 
and  taken  the  empty  pails  on  her  arms,  Sophia  started 
ahead  down  the  lane. 


CHAP.  X] 


in/. IT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


367 


5aiice- 
niilk 

kne  so 
wlio, 

;xcel- 
ntlier 
knew 
were 
|)y  the 
mt  to 
Iskirts 
tai'ted 


Just  then  some  one  turned  in  from  the  road.  It  was 
Eliza,  and  she  was  in  too  much  haste  to  take  heed  of  the 
milking  gear. 

"Oh,  Miss  Sophia,  I'm  so  glad  I've  mot  you,  and  alone. 
AVe've  been  so  busy  at  the  hotel  with  a  cheap  excursion, 
I've  been  trying  all  day  to  get  a  word  to  you.  Look 
here!"  (she  thrust  some  crumpled  letters  into  Sophia's 
hand)  "1  thought  you'd  better  see  those,  and  say  some- 
thing to  the  girls.  They'll  get  themselves  into  trouble  if 
they  go  on  as  silly  as  this.  It  seems  it's  some  silly  'post 
otKce  '  they've  had  in  a  tree  between  them  and  that  Hark- 
ness.  I've  had  that  letter  from  him,  and  certainly.  Miss 
Sophia,  if  he's  as  much  to  blame  as  them,  he's  acted  civil 
enough  now.  He  had  a  better  heart  than  most  men,  I  be- 
lieve, for  all  he  bragged  about  it.  He  forgot  where  he  had 
thrown  their  letters  as  waste  paper,  and  you'll  see  by  that 
letter  of  his  he  took  some  trouble  to  write  to  me  to  go  and 
get  them,  for  fear  they  should  be  found  and  the  girls  talked 
about." 

Sophia  stood  still  in  dismay. 

"  There ! "  said  Eliza,  "  I  knew  you'd  feel  hurt,  but  I 
thought  you'd  better  know  for  all  that.  There's  no  harm 
done,  only  they'd  better  have  a  good  setting  down  about  it." 
She  began  to  turn  back  again.  "I  must  go,"  she  said, 
" the  dining-room  girls  are  rushed  off  their  feet;  but  if  I 
were  you.  Miss  Sophia,  I  wouldn't  say  a  word  to  anyone 
else  about  it.  Some  one  came  in  while  I  was  getting  these 
letters,  but  it  was  dark  and  I  dodged  round  and  made  off 
without  being  seen,  so  that  I  needn't  explain.  It  wouldn't 
do  for  the  girls,  you  know " 

Sophia  turned  the  letters  about  in  her  hand.  One  was 
from  Cyril  Harkness  to  Eliza;  the  others  were  poor,  fool- 
ish little  notes,  written  by  Blue  and  Red.  Louise  came 
out  of  the  yard  and  passed  them  into  the  field,  and  Sophia 
thrust  the  letters  into  her  dress. 

That  Eliza  should  naively  give  her  advice  concernipg  the 
training  of  her  sisters  was  a  circumstance  so  in  keeping 


vlii 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


V 


^ 


/. 


{/ 


S^  id. 


^6 


1.0 


I.I 


11.25 


40  mil  2.0 


12.2 


lit 

u  II 


1.8 


1.4 


m 


^ 


VI 


^> 


/: 


V 


/A 


'  /A 


fe 


CV 


368  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  hi 

with  the  girl's  force  of  character  that  her  late  mistress 
hardly  gave  it  a  thought,  nor  had  she  time  at  that  moment 
to  wonder  where  the  letters  had  been  left  and  found.  It 
was  the  thought  that  the  family  reputation  for  sense  and 
sobriety  had  apparently  been  in  the  hands  of  an  unprinci- 
pled stranger,  and  had  been  preserved  only  by  his  easy 
good-nature  and  by  Eliza's  energy,  that  struck  her  with 
depressing  and  irritating  force.  Had  the  girls  come  in  her 
way  just  tlien,  the  words  she  would  have  addressed  to  them 
would  have  been  more  trenchant  than  wise,  but  as  Eliza  was 
by  her  side,  retreating  towards  the  road,  she  felt  no  desire 
to  discuss  the  matter  with  her. 

She  observed  now  that  Eliza  looked  worn  and  miserable 
as  she  had  never  seen  her  look  before,  unless,  indeed,  it 
had  been  in  the  first  few  days  siie  ever  saw  her.  The 
crowded  state  of  the  hotel  could  hardly  account  for  this. 
"  I  hope,  Eliza,  'that  having  despised  that  suitor  of  yours 
when  he  was  here,  you  are  not  repenting  now  he  is  gone." 

The  girl  looked  at  her  dully,  not  understanding  at  first. 

"Speaking  of  Cyril  Harkness?"  she  cried;  "good  gra- 
cious, no.  Miss  Sophia."  But  the  response  was  not  given 
in  a  sprightly  manner,  and  did  not  convey  any  conviction 
of  its  truth. 

"You  must  be  working  too  hard." 

"Well,  I  needn't.  I'll  tell  you  a  bit  of  good  fortune 
that's  come  to  me.  Mrs.  Glass — one  of  our  boarders — you 
know  her? " 

"  The  stout  person  that  comes  to  church  in  red  satin?  " 

"Yes;  and  she's  rich  too.  Well,  she's  asked  me  to  go 
and  visit  her  in  Montreal  in  the  slack  time  this  next  win- 
ter; and  she's  such  a  good  boarder  every  summer,  you 
know,  Mr.  Hutchins  is  quite  set  on  me  going.  She's 
promised  to  take  me  to  parties  and  concerts,  and  the  big 
rink,  and  what  not.  Ah,  Miss  Sophia,  you  never  thought 
I  could  come  that  sort  of  thing  so  soon,  did  you?  " 

"And  are  you  not  going?  " 

Sophia's  question  arose  from  a  certain  ring  of  mockery 
in  Eliza's  relation  of  her  triumph. 


CHAP.  X] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  K'NOIVS 


369 


me 
rou 


go 

rou 

lie's 

Ibig 
gilt 


lery 


"No,  I'm  not  going  a  step.  I)'3'ou  think  I'm  going  to 
be  beholden  to  her,  vulgar  old  thing!  And  besides,  she 
talks  about  getting  me  married.  I  think  there's  nothing 
so  miserable  in  the  world  as  to  be  married." 

"Most  women  are  much  happier  married."  Sophia  said 
this  with  orthodox  propriety,  although  she  did  not  alto- 
gether believe  it. 

"Yes,  when  they  can't  fend  for  themselves,  poor  things. 
But  to  be  for  ever  tied  ^a  a  house  and  a  man,  never  to  do 
just  what  one  liked!  I'm  going  to  take  pattern  by  you. 
Miss  Sophia,  and  not  get  married." 

Eliza  went  back  to  the  village,  and  Sophia  turned  toward 
the  pasture  and  the  college.  The  first  breath  of  autumn 
wind  was  sweeping  down  the  road  to  meet  her.  All  about 
the  first  sparks  of  the  great  autumnal  hre  of  colour  were 
kindling.  In  the  nearer  wood  she  noticed  stray  boughs  of 
yellow  or  pink  foliage  displayed  hanging  over  the  dark  tops 
of  young  spruce  trees,  or  waving  against  the  blue  of  the  un- 
clouded sky.  It  was  an  air  to  make  the  heavy  heart  jocund 
in  spite  of  itself,  and  the  sweet  influences  of  this  blithe 
evening  in  the  pasture  field  were  not  lost  upon  Sophia, 
although  she  had  not  the  spirit  now  to  wish  mischievously, 
as  before,  that  Mrs.  and  Miss  Bennett,  or  some  of  their 
friends,  would  pass  to  see  her  carry  the  milk  in  daylight. 
It  was  a  happy  pride  that  had  been  at  the  root  of  her  defi- 
ance of  public  opinion,  and  her  pride  was  depressed  now, 
smarting  under  the  sharp  renewal  of  the  conviction  that  her 
sisters  were  naughty  and  silly,  and  that  their  present  train- 
ing was  largely  to  blame. 

The  Bennetts  did  not  come  by,  neither  did  Mrs.  Brown's 
carriage  pass,  nor  a  brake  from  the  hotel.  Sophia  had  car- 
ried home  the  milk  of  two  cows  and  returned  before  anyone 
of  the  slightest  consequence  passed  by.  She  was  just  start- 
ing with  two  more  pails  when  Alec  Trenholme  came  along 
at  a  fast  trot  on  his  brother's  handsome  cob.  He  was  ?lose 
by  her  before  she  had  time  to  see  who  it  was,  and  when  he 
drew  up  his  horse  she  felt  strangely  annoyed.     Instinct 


370  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  hi 

told  her  that,  while  others  might  have  criticised,  this 
simple-hearted  fellow  Avould  only  compassionate  her  toil. 
Their  mutual  adventure  of  the  previous  evening  had  so  far 
established  a  sense  of  comradeship  with  him  that  slie  did 
not  take  refuge  in  indifference,  but  felt  her  vanity  hurt  at 
his  pity. 

At  tliat  moment  the  simple  iron  semi-circle  which  the 
milk  maid  used  to  hold  her  pails  off  her  skirts,  became, 
with  Sophia's  handling,  the  most  complex  thing,  and  would 
in  no  wise  adjust  itself.  Alec  jumped  from  his  horse,  hung 
his  bridle-rein  over  the  gate-post  as  he  entered  the  pasture, 
and  made  as  if  to  take  the  pails  as  a  matter  of  course. 

Pride,  vanity,  conceit,  whatever  it  may  be  that  makes 
people  dislike  kindness  when  their  need  is  obvious,  pro- 
duced in  her  an  awkward  gaiety.  "Nay,"  said  she,  refus- 
ing; "why  should  you  carry  my  milk  for  me?" 

"  Well,  for  one  thing,  we  live  too  near  not  to  know  you 
don't  do  it  usually." 

"  Still,  it  may  be  my  special  pleasure  to  carry  it  to-night; 
and  if  not,  why  should  you  help  me  with  this  any  more 
than,  for  instance,  in  cooking  the  dinner  to-morrow?  I 
assure  you  my  present  pastoral  occupation  is  much  more 
romantic  and  picturesque  than  that." 

But  he  took  the  half-filled  pails  (she  had  not  attempted 
to  carry  full  ones),  and,  pouring  the  contents  of  one  into 
the  other,  proceeded  to  carry  it. 

"Since  it  is  you  who  command,"  she  cried,  "shall  I  hold 
your  horse  in  the  meantime?" 

With  provoking  literalism  he  gave  a  critical  glance  at  the 
bridle.  "He's  all  right,"  he  said,  not  caring  much,  in 
truth,  whether  the  cob  broke  loose  or  not. 

So  she  followed  him  across  the  road  into  the  lane,  be- 
cause it  hardly  seemed  civil  to  let  him  go  alone,  and  be- 
cause he  would  not  know  what  to  do  with  the  milk  when  he 
got  to  the  yard.     She  did  not,  however,  like  this  position. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  began  again,  "that  I  am  very  angry 
with  you,  Mr.  Trenholme?  " 


CHAP.  X] 


WHAT  NECEHSITV  KNOWS 


371 


lold 

the 
,   in 

be- 

be- 

^1  he 

lion. 

igry 


He  wished  for  several  reasons  that  she  would  cease  her 
banter,  and  he  had  another  subject  to  advance,  which  he 
now  brouglit  forward  abruptly.  "  I  don't  know,  Miss  Rex- 
ford,  what  right  I  have  to  think  you  will  take  any  interest 
in  wluit  interests  me,  but,  after  what  luqjpenod  last  night, 
I  can't  help  telling  you  that  I've  got  to  the  bottom  of  that 
puzzle,  and  I'm  afraid  it  will  prove  a  very  serious  matter 
for  my  poor  friend  Bates." 

"  What  is  it?  "  she  cried,  his  latest  audacity  forgotten. 

"Just  now,  as  I  came  out  of  the  village,  I  met  the  person 
I  saw  in  the  Harmon  house,  and  the  same  I  saw  before,  the 
time  I  told  you  of.  It  was  a  woman — a  young  woman 
dressed  in  silk.  I  don't  know  what  she  may  be  doing  here, 
but  I  know  now  who  she  must  be.  She  must  be  Sissy 
Cameron.  No  otlier  girl  could  have  been  at  Turrit's  Sta- 
tion the  niglit  I  saw  her  there.  She  is  Sissy  Cameron." 
(His  voice  grew  fiercer.)  "She  must  have  turned  her 
father's  hearse  into  a  vehicle  for  her  own  tricks;  and 
what's  more,  slie  must,  with  the  most  deliberate  cruelty, 
have  kept  the  knowledge  of  her  safety  from  poor  Bates  all 
these  months." 

"  Stay,  stay ! "  cried  Sophia,  for  his  voice  had  grown  so 
full  of  anger  against  the  girl  that  he  could  hardly  pour  out 
the  tale  of  her  guilt  fast  enough.  "  Where  did  you  meet 
her?    What  was  she  like?" 

"  I  met  her  ten  minutes  ago,  walking  on  this  road.  She 
was  a  great  big  buxom  girl,  witli  a  white  face  and  red 
hair;  perhaps  people  might  call  her  handsome.  I  pulled 
up  and  stared  at  her,  but  she  went  on  as  if  she  didn't  see 
me.  Now  I'm  going  in  to  ^ell  Bates,  and  then  I  shall  go 
back  and  bring  her  to  book.  I  don't  know  what  she  may 
be  up  to  in  Chellaston,  but  she  must  be  found." 

"Many  people  do  think  her  handsome,  Mr.  Trenholme," 
said  Sophia,  for  she  knew  now  who  it  was;  'and  she  is 
certainly  not — the  sort  of " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  know  her?  " 

"Yes,  I  know  her  quite  well.     I  had  something  to  do 


I>     I 


372 


WHAT  NEC  ESS  IT  y  KNOWS 


[book  III 


with  bringing  hor  to  Chellaston.  I  never  knew  till  this 
moment  that  slie  was  the  girl  you  and  Mr.  Bates  have  been 

seeking,    and    indeed "      She   stopped   confused,    for, 

altliougli  it  had  flaslied  on  her  for  the  first  time  that  what 
she  k»^'  w  of  Eliza's  history  tallied  with  his  story,  she 
could  not  make  it  all  match,  and  then  she  perceived  that  no 
doubt  it  was  in  the  Harmon  house  that  Eliza  had  so  faith- 
fully sought  the  letters  now  held  in  her  own  hand.  "  Really," 
she  continued,  "you  mustn't  go  to  work  with  this  girl  in 
the  summary  manner  you  suggest.  I  know  her  too  well  to 
think  anytliing  could  be  gained  by  that.  She  is,  in  a  sense, 
a  friend  of  mine." 

"Don't  say  she  is  a  friend  of  yours — don't!"  he  said, 
with  almost  disgust  in  his  tone. 

They  had  halted  in  the  lane  just  outside  the  yard  gate, 
and  now  he  put  down  the  pail  and  turned  his  back  on  the 
still  shut  gate  to  speak  with  more  freedom.  As  he  talked, 
the  brisk  air  dashed  about  the  boughs  of  the  spindling 
lilac  hedge,  shaking  slant  sunbeams  upon  the  unpainted 
gate  and  upon  the  young  man  and  woman  in  front  of  it. 

Then,  but  in  a  way  that  was  graphic  because  of  strong 
feeling,  Alec  Trenholme  told  the  more  real  part  of  the  story 
which  he  had  outlined  the  night  before;  told  of  the  melan- 
choly solitude  in  which  Bates  had  been  left  with  the  help- 
less old  woman  in  a  house  that  was  bewitched  in  the  eyes 
of  all,  so  that  no  servant  or  labourer  would  come  near  it. 
In  talk  that  was  a  loose  mosaic  of  detail  .and  generalisation, 
he  told  of  the  woman's  work  to  which  the  proud  Sc«»tchman 
had  been  reduced  in  care  of  the  aunt  who  in  his  infancy 
had  cared  for  him,  and  how  he  strove  to  keep  the  house 
tidy  for  her  because  she  fretted  when  she  saw  house- 
work ill-done.  He  explained  that  Bates  would  have  been 
reduced  to  hard  straits  Tor  w.ant  of  the  yearly  income  from 
his  lumber  had  not  he  himself  "  chanced  "  to  go  and  help 
him.  He  said  that  Bates  had  gone  through  all  this  with- 
out complaint,  without  even  counting  it  hard,  because  of 
the  grief  he  counted  so  much  worse — the  loss  of  the  girl, 


CHAP.  X] 


WHAT  NEC  ESS /TV  k'NOll'S 


373 


help- 
eyes 

ear  it. 
sation, 
clunan 
nfanoy 
house 
house- 
i^e  been 
le  from 
id  help 
is  with- 
ause  of 
he  girl? 


and  the  belief  that  she  had  perished  because  of  his  unkind- 
ness. 

"For  he  loved  her,  Miss  Rexford.  He  had  never  had 
anyone  else  to  care  for,  and  he  had  just  centred  his  whole 
heart  on  her.  He  cared  for  her  as  if  she  had  been  his 
daugliter  and  sister,  and — and  he  cared  for  her  in  another 
way  that  was  more  than  all.  It  was  a  lonely  enough  j)lace; 
no  one  could  blame  a  woman  for  wanting  to  leave  it;  but  to 
leave  a  man  to  think  her  dead  when  he  loved  her !  " 

Sophia  was  touched  by  the  story  and  touched  nearly  also 
by  the  heart  of  the  man  who  told  it,  for  in  such  telling  the 
hearts  of  speaker  and  listener  beat  against  one  another 
through  finer  medium  than  that  which  we  call  space.  But 
just  because  she  was  touched  it  was  characteristic  in  her  to 
find  a  point  that  she  could  assail. 

"I  don't  see  that  a  woman  is  specially  beholden  to  a 
man  because  he  loves  her  against  her  will." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  " — fiercely — "  that  she  was  not  be- 
holden to  him  because  he  taught  her  everything  she  knew, 
and  was  willing  to  work  to  support  her?" 

"  Yes,  certainly,  she  was  under  obligation  for  all  his 
kindness,  but  his  being  in  love  with  her — that  is  different." 

But  Alec  Trenholme,  like  many  people,  could  not  see  a 
fine  point  in  the  heat  of  discussion.  Afterwards,  on  reflec- 
tion he  saw  what  she  had  meant,  but  now  he  only  acted  in 
the  most  unreasonable  of  ways. 

"Well,  I  don't  see  it  as  you  do,"  he  said;  and  then,  the 
picture  of  suppressed  indignation,  he  took  up  the  pail  to  go 
inside  and  dispose  of  it. 

"I  don't  know  how  it  can  all  be,"  said  Sophia  consider- 
ing, "but  I'm  sure  there's  a  great  deal  of  good  in  her." 

At  this,  further  silence,  even  out  of  deference  to  her, 
seemed  to  him  inadequate.  "  I  don't  pretend  to  know  how 
it  can  be ;  how  she  got  here,  or  what  she  has  been  doing 
here,  dressed  in  silk  finery,  or  what  she  may  have  been 
masquerading  with  matches  in  the  old  house  over  there  for. 
All  I  know  is,  a  girl  who  treated  Bates  as  she  did- 


ii 


374 


WHAT  NECESSITV  KNOWS 


[book  hi 


il 

i! 


"No,  you  don't  know  any  of  these  things.  You  have 
only  heard  one  side  of  the  story.     It  is  not  fair  to  judge." 

"  She  has  ruined  his  life,  done  as  good  as  killed  him. 
Why  should  you  take  her  part?" 

"Because  there  are  always  two  sides  to  everything.  I 
don't  know  much  of  her  story,  but  I  have  heard  some  of  it, 
and  it  didn't  sound  like  what  you  have  said.  As  to  her 
being  in  the  Harmon  house "     Sophia  stopped. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  asked  Alec,  "that  she  has  been 
living  here  all  the  time  quite  openly?" 

"  Yes — that  is,  she  has  given  a  false  name,  it  seems,  but, 
Mr.  Trenholme " 

"  If  she  has  lied  about  her  name,  depend  upon  it  she  has 
lied  about  everything  else.  I  wouldn't  want  you  to  go 
within  ten  feet  of  her." 

Although  the  fallacy  of  such  argument  as  Alec's  too 
often  remains  undetected  when  no  stubborn  fact  arises  to 
support  justice,  Sophia,  v/ith  her  knowledge  of  Eliza, 
could  not  fail  to  see  the  absurdity  of  it.  Her  mind  was 
dismayed  at  the  thought  of  what  the  girl  had  apparently 
done  and  concealed,  but  nothing  could  make  her  doubt  that 
the  Eliza  she  knew  was  different  from  the  Sissy  Cameron 
he  was  depicting.  She  did  not  doubt,  either,  that  if  any- 
thing would  bring  out  all  the  worst  in  her  and  make  her  a 
thousand  times  more  unkind  to  Bates,  it  would  be  the 
attack  Alec  Trenholme  meditated.  She  decided  that  she 
ought  herself  to  act  as  go-between.  She  remembered  the 
scorn  with  which  the  patronage  of  a  vulgar  woman  had  that 
evening  been  discarded,  and  whether  Eliza  herself  knew 
it  or  not,  Sophia  knew  that  this  nicety  of  taste  was  due 
chiefly  to  her  own  influence.  The  subtle  flattery  of  this 
pleaded  with  her  now  on  the  girl's  behalf:  and  perceiving 
that  Alec  Trenholme  was  not  amenable  to  reason,  she,  like 
a  good  woman,  condescended  to  coax  him  for  reason's  sake. 
To  a  woman  the  art  of  managing  man  is  much  like  the  art 
of  skating  or  swimming,  however  long  it  may  Me  in  disuse, 
the  trick,  once  learnt,  is  there  to  command.     The  milk,  it 


CHAP.  X] 


WHAT  NEC  ESS /TV  KNOWS 


375 


lue 
his 
iiig 
ike 
ke. 
art 
ise, 
it 


seemed,  must  be  taken  down  the  cellar  steps  and  poured 
into  pans.  Then  a  draught  of  milk  off  the  ice  was  given 
to  him.  Then,  it  appeared,  she  must  return  to  the  pas- 
ture, and  on  their  way  she  pointed  out  the  flowers  that  she 
had  planted,  ant^  let  him  break  one  that  he  admired. 

When  they  reached  the  field  Sophia  proffered  her  request, 
which  was,  that  he  would  leave  his  discovery  in  her  hands 
for  one  day,  for  one  day  only,  she  pleaded.  She  added  that 
he  might  come  to  see  her  the  next  afternoon,  and  she 
would  tell  him  what  explanation  Eliza  had  to  give,  and  in 
what  mood  she  would  meet  her  unfortunate  guardian. 

And  Sophia's  reqiiest  was  granted,  granted  with  that 
whole-hearted  allegiance  and  entire  docility,  with  a  tender- 
ness of  eye  and  lightsomeness  of  demeanour,  that  made  her 
perceive  that  this  young  man  had  not  been  so  obdurate  as 
he  appeared,  and  that  her  efforts  to  appease  him  had  been 
out  of  proportion  to  what  was  required. 

When  he  mounted  his  horse  and  rode  off  unmindful  of 
the  last  pail  of  milk,  for  indeed  his  head  was  a  little 
turned,  Sophia  was  left  standing  by  the  pasture  gate  feel- 
ing unpleasantly  conscious  of  her  own  handsome  face  and 
accomplished  manner.  If  she  felt  amused  that  he  should 
show  himself  so  susceptible,  she  also  felt  ashamed,  she 
hardly  knew  why.  She  remembered  that  in  his  eyes  on  a 
previous  occasion  which  she  had  taken  as  a  signal  for  alarm 
on  her  part,  and  wondered  why  she  had  not  remembered 
it  sooner.  The  thing  was  done  now:  she  had  petted  and 
cajoled  him,  and  she  felt  no  doubt  that  masculine  conceit 
would  render  him  blind  to  her  true  motive.  Henceforth  he 
would  suppose  that  she  encouraged  his  fancy.  Sophia, 
who  liked  to  have  all  things  her  own  way,  felt  discon- 
certed. 


376 


IVHAr  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  III 


CHAPTER  XI. 


\    I! 


After  tea  Sophia  took  Blue  and  Red  apart  into  their 
little  bedroom.  An  old  cotton  blind  was  pulled  down  to 
shield  the  low  window  from  passers  in  the  yard.  The  pane 
was  open  and  the  blind  flapped.  The  room  had  little 
ornament  and  was  unattractive. 

"How  could  you  write  letters  to  that  Mr.  Harkness?" 
asked  Sophia,  trying  to  be  patient. 

"We  didn't — exactly,"  said  Blue,  "but  how  did  you 
know?  " 

"At  least — we  did,"  said  Red,  "but  only  notes.  '  "What 
have  you  heard.  Sister  Sojjhia?  Has  he" — anxiously — 
"  written  to  papa?  " 

"Written  to  papa! "  repeated  Sophia  in  scorn.  "What 
should  he  do  that  for?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Red,  more  dejected.  "It's" — a 
little  pause — "  it's  the  sort  of  thing  they  do." 

Sophia  drew  in  her  breath  with  an  effort  not  to  laugh, 
and  managed  to  sigh  instead.  "  I  think  you  are  the  silliest 
girls  of  your  age !  " 

"Well,  I  don't  care,"  cried  Blue,  falling  from  bashfulness 
into  a  pout,  and  from  a  pout  into  tears.     "  I  donH  care,  so 

now.     I  think  he  was  much  nicer — much  nicer  than " 

She  sat  upon  a  chair  and  kicked  her  little  toes  upon  the 
ground.  Red's  dimpled  face  was  flushing  with  ominous 
colour  about  the  eyes. 

"  Really !  "  cried  Sophia,  and  then  she  stopped,  arrested 
by  her  own  word.  How  was  it  possible  to  present  reality 
to  eyes  that  looked  out  through  such  maze  of  ignorance  and 
folly;  it  seemed  easier  to  take  up  a  sterner  theme  and  com- 
ment upon  the  wickedness  of  disobedience  and  secrecy. 
Yet  all  the  time  her  words  missed  the  mark,  because  the 
true  sin  of  these  two  pretty  criminals  was  utter  folly. 
Surely  if  the  world,  and  their  fragment  of  it,  had  beeu 


CHAP.  XI] 


IVHAT  NECESSITY  KNOIVS 


yn 


wliat  they  tliouglit — the  youth  a  liero,  anil  their  parents 
wrongly  proud — their  action  had  not  been  so  wholly  evil! 
liut  how  could  she  trim  all  the  thoughts  of  their  silly  heads 
into  true  proportion? 

"I  shall  have  to  tell  papa,  you  know;  I  couldn't  take 
the  responsibility  of  not  telling  him;  but  I  won't  speak 
till  this  press  of  work  is  over,  because  he  is  so  tired,  so 
you  can  be  thinking  how  you  will  apologise  to  him." 

Both  Blue  and  lied  were  weeping  now,  and  Sophia, 
feeling  that  she  had  made  adequate  impression,  was  glad 
to  pause. 

lied  was  the  first  to  withdraw  her  handkerchief  from 
dewy  eyes.  Her  tone  .ind  attitude  seemed  penitent,  and 
Sophia  looked  at  her  encouragingly. 

"Sister  Sophia" — meekly — "does  he  say  in  his  letter 
where  he  is,  or — or  " — the  voice  trembled — "  if  he's  ever 
coming  back?  " 

For  such  disconsolate  affection  Sophia  felt  that  the  letter 
referred  to  was  perhaps  the  best  medicine.  "  I  will  read 
you  all  that  he  says."  And  she  read  it  slowly  and  dis- 
tinctly, as  one  reads  a  lesson  to  children. 


less 
so 

the 

lOUS 

Isted 

ility 
and 
jom- 

I'ecy. 
the 

)ny. 

)eeii 


♦'Dear  Eliza." 

"He  didn't  think  she  was 'dear,' "  pouted  Blue.  "He 
told  us  she  was  'real  horrid.'  " 

Sophia  read  on  from  the  crumpled  sheet  with  merciless 
distinctness. 

"Come  to  think  of  it,  when  I  was  coming  off  I  threw  all  my 
bills  and  letters  and  things  down  in  a  he.ap  in  the  back  kitchen  at 
Harmon's  ;  and  there  were  some  letters  there  that  those  'cute  little  Rcx- 
ford  girls  wrote  to  me.  They  were  real  spoony  on  me,  but  I  wasn't 
spoony  on  them  one  bit,  Eliza,  at  least,  not  in  my  heart,  which  having 
been  given  to  you,  remained  yours  intact ;  but  I  sort  of  feel  a  qualm 
to  think  how  their  respected  pa  would  jaw  them  if  those  billets-doux 
were  found  and  handed  over.  You  can  get  in  at  the  kitchen  window 
quite  easy  by  slipping  the  bolt  with  a  knife  ;  so  as  I  know  you  have 
a  hankering  after  the  Bexfords,  I  give  you  this  chance  to  crib  those 


378 


WHAT  NEC  ESS /TV  KNOWS 


[hook  hi 


\''  s 


letters  if  you  like.    They  are  folded  small  because  they  had  to  be  put 
in  a  nick  in  a  tree,  callt'(l  by  those  amiable  young  latlies,  a  \  »8t-office. 
"  I'm  real  sorry  I  made  you  cry,  Eliza.    It's  as  well  I  didn't  remain 
or  I  might  have  begun  admiring  of  you  again,  which  might  have  ended 
in  breaking  my  vow  to  be — Only  your  ex-admirer,  cybil.  r.  h ." 

"  Oh !  "  cried  Blue,  her  tears  dried  by  the  fire  of  injury, 
"  we  never  talked  to  him  except  when  he  talked  to  us — 
never ! " 

"There's  a  postscript,"  said  Sophia,  and  then  she  read  it. 

"  P.  S.  They  used  to  cock  their  eyes  at  me  when  they  saw  me  over 
the  fence.  You  had  better  tell  them  not  to  do  it ;  I  could  not  bear  to 
think  of  them  doing  it  to  anyone  else." 

"  Oh !  "  cried  Ked,  "  Oh — li !  he  never  said  to  us  that  we 
cocked  our  eyes.  He  said  once  to  Blue  that  the  way  she 
curled  her  eyelashes  at  him  was  real  captivating." 

Sophia  rose  delivering  her  final  word:  "Nothing  could 
be  more  utterly  vulgar  than  to  flirt  with  a  young  man  who 
is  beneath  you  in  station  just  because  he  happens  to  be 
thrown  in  your  way." 


HIM 


CHAPTER  XII. 

When  Sophia  went  to  the  hotel  next  morning,  Eliza 
was  not  to  be  found.  She  was  not  in,  and  no  one  knew 
where  she  was.  Mr.  Hutchins  was  inclined  to  grumble 
at  her  absence  as  an  act  of  high-handed  liberty,  but  Miss 
Rexford  was  not  interested  in  his  comments.  She  went 
back  to  her  work  at  home  and  felt  in  dread  of  the  visit 
which  she  had  arranged  for  Alec  Trenholme  .to  make  that 
day.  She  began  to  be  afraid  that,  having  no  information 
of  importance  with  which  to  absorb  his  attention,  he  might 
to  some  extent  make  a  fool  of  himself.  Having  seen  in- 
cipient signs  of  this  state  of  things,  she  took  for  granted 
it  would  grow. 


CHAP.  XIl] 


WHAT  NECESS/TV  KNOWS 


379 


that 
tion 
ight 
in- 
ited 


When  the  expected  caller  did  come,  Sophia,  because  the 
servant  could  still  do  but  little,  was  at  work  in  the  dairy, 
and  she  sent  one  of  the  children  to  ask  him  to  come  into 
the  yard.  The  dairy  was  a  pleasant  place;  it  was  a  lonj; 
low  stone  room,  with  two  doors  opening  on  the  green  yard. 
The  roof  of  it  was  shaded  by  a  tree  planted  for  that  pur- 
pose, and  not  many  feet  from  its  end  wall  tlie  cool  blue 
river  ran.  A  queen  could  not  have  had  a  sweeter  place 
for  an  audience  chamber,  albeit  there  was  need  of  paint  and 
repairs,  aid  the  wooden  doorstep  was  almost  worn  away. 

Sophia,  churn-handle  in  hand,  greeted  her  visitor  with- 
out apology.  She  had  expected  that  this  churn-handle,  the 
evidence  of  work  to  be  done,  would  act  as  a  check  upon 
feeling,  but  she  saw  with  little  more  than  a  glance  that 
such  check  was  superfluous;  there  was  no  sign  of  intoxica- 
tion from  the  wine  of  graciousness  which  she  had  held  to 
his  lips  when  last  she  saw  him.  As  he  talked  to  her  he 
stood  on  the  short  white  clover  outside  the  door's  decaying 
lintel.  He  had  a  j^ood  deal  to  say  about  Bates,  and  more 
about  Sissy  Cameron,  and  Sophia  found  that  she  had  a  good 
deal  to  say  in  answer. 

The  chur'i  was  a  hideous  American  patent,  but  light  and 
verj''  convenient.  They  talked  to  the  monotonous  splash 
of  the  milk  within,  and  as  work  was  not  being  interrupted, 
Alec  was  at  length  asked  to  sit  down  on  the  worn  doorstep, 
and  he  remained  there  until  the  butter  "came."  He  had 
gone  up  in  Sophia's  esteem  many  degrees,  because  she  saw 
now  that  any  escape  of  warmer  sentiment  had  been  invol- 
untary on  his  part.  She  blessed  him  in  her  heart  for  be- 
ing at  once  so  susceptible  and  so  strong.  She  fancied  that 
there  was  a  shade  of  sadness  in  his  coolness  which  lent  it 
attraction.  With  that  shadow  of  the  epicurean  which  is 
apt  to  be  found  upon  all  civilised  hearts,  she  felt  that  it 
did  her  good  to  realise  how  nice  he  was,  just  as  a  fresh 
flower  or  a  strong  wind  would  have  done  her  good.  She 
said  to  him  that  she  supposed  he  would  not  be  staying 
much  longer  in  CliellastoU;  and  he  replied  that  as  soou  as 


38o 


WHAT  NEC  ESS /TV  KNOWS 


[book  hi 


I   I 


I    : 


Bates  would  go  and  his  brother  was  on  his  feet  again  he 
intended  to  leave  for  the  West.  Then  he  begged  her  to 
lose  no  time  in  seeing  Eliza,  for  Bates  had  taken  to  hob- 
bling about  "-.he  roads,  and  he  thought  a  sudden  and  acci- 
dental meeting  with  the  girl  miglit  be  the  death  of  him. 

Now  this  assertion  of  Alec's,  that  Bates  had  taken  to 
walking  out  of  doors,  was  based  on  the  fact  told  him  by 
Mrs.  Martha  and  his  brother,  that  the  day  before  Bates 
had  wilfully  walked  forth,  and  after  some  hours  came  back 
much  exhausted.  "Where  did  you  go?"  Alec  had  asked 
him  fiercely,  almost  suspecting,  from  his  abject  looks,  that 
he  had  seen  the  girl.  He  could,  however,  learn  nothing 
but  that  the  invalid  had  walked  "  down  the  road  and  rested 
a  while  and  come  back."  Nothing  important  had  hap- 
pened. Alec  thought;  and  yet  this  conclusion  was  not 
true. 

That  which  had  happened  had  been  this.  John  Bates, 
after  lying  for  a  week  trying  to  devise  some  cunning  plan 
for  seeing  Sissy  without  compromising  her,  and  having 
failed  in  this,  rose  up  in  the  sudden  energy  of  a  climax  of 
impatience,  and,  by  dint  of  short  stages  and  many  rests  by 
the  roadside,  found  his  way  througli  the  town,  up  the  steps 
of  the  hotel,  and  into  its  bar-room.  No  one  could  hinder 
him  from  going  there,  thought  he,  and  perchance  he  might 
see  the  lassie. 

Years  of  solitude,  his  great  trouble,  and,  lastly,  the  com- 
plaint which  rendered  him  so  obviously  feeble,  had  engen- 
dered in  his  heart  a  shyness  that  made  it  terrible  to  him  to 
go  alone  across  the  hotel  verandah,  where  men  and  women 
were  idling.  In  truth,  though  he  was  obviously  ill,  the 
people  noticed  him  much  less  than  he  supposed,  for  stran- 
gers often  came  there ;  but  egotism  is  a  knife  which  shyness 
uses  to  wound  itself  with.  When  he  got  into  the  shaded 
and  comparatively  empty  bar-room,  he  would  have  felt  more 
at  home,  had  it  not  been  for  the  disconsolate  belief  that,, 
there  was  one  at  home  in  that  house  to  whom  his  presence 
would  be  terribly  unwelcome.     It  was  with  a  nightmare  of 


CHAP,  xii]  WHAT  NECESS/TV  KNOWS 


381 


bhat, 
jnce 
of 


pain  and  desolation  on  his  heart  that  he  Laid  trembling  arms 
upon  the  bar,  and  began  to  chat  with  the  landlord. 

"I'm  on  the  look-out  for  a  young  man  and  a  young 
woman,"  said  he,  "who'll  come  and  work  on  my  clearing;  " 
and  so  he  opened  talk  with  the  hotel-keeper.  He  looked 
often  through  the  door  into  the  big  passage,  but  Sissy  did 
not  pass. 

Now  Mr.  Hutch  ins  did  not  know  of  anyone  to  suit  Bates's 
requirements,  and  he  did  know  that  the  neighbourhood  of 
Chellaston  was  the  most  unlikely  to  produce  such  servants, 
but,  having  that  which  was  disappointing  to  say,  he  said  it 
by  degrees.  Bates  ordered  a  glass  of  cooling  summer  drink, 
and  had  his  pipe  filled  while  they  discussed.  The  one  tasted 
to  him  like  gall,  and  the  fumes  of  the  other  were  powerless 
to  allay  his  growing  trepidation,  and  yet,  in  desperate 
adventure,  he  stayed  on. 

Hutchins,  soon  perceiving  that  he  was  a  man  of  some 
education,  and  finding  out  that  he  was  the  oft-talked-of  guest 
of  "The  Principal,"  continued  to  entertain  him  cheerfully 
enough.  "Now,"  said  he,  "talking  of  people  to  help,  I've 
got  a  girl  in  my  house  now — well,  I  may  say  I  fell  on  my 
feet  when  I  got  her."  Then  followed  a  history  of  his  deal- 
ings with  Eliza,  including  an  account  of  his  own  astuteness 
in  perceiving  what  she  was,  and  his  cleverness  in  securing 
her  services.  Bates  listened  hungrily,  but  with  a  pang  in 
his  heart. 

"Aye,"  said  he  outwardly,  "you'll  be  keeping  a  very 
quiet  house  here." 

"You  may  almost  call  it  a  religious  house,"  said 
Hutchins,  taking  the  measure  of  his  man.  "  Family  prayer 
every  Sunday  in  the  dining-room  for  all  who  likes.  Yes," 
he  added,  rubbing  his  hand  on  his  lame  knee,  "  Canadians 
are  pious  for  the  most  part,  Mr.  Bates,  and  I  have  the 
illeet  of  two  cities  on  my  balconies." 

Other  men  came  in  and  went  out  of  the  room.  Women 
in  summer  gowns  passed  the  door.  Still  Bates  and 
Hutchins  talked. 


i 


m  '  i 


382 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  III 


\ 


I 


At  last,  because  Bates  waited  long  enough,  Eliza  passed 
the  door,  and  catching  sight  of  him,  she  turned,  suddenly 
staring  as  if  she  knew  not  exactly  what  she  was  doing. 
There  were  two  men  at  the  bar  drinking.  Hutchins,  from 
his  high  swivel  chair,  was  waiting  upon  them.  They  both 
looked  at  Eliza;  and  now  Bates,  trembling  in  every  nerve, 
felt  only  a  weak  fear  lest  she  should  turn  upon  him  in  wrath 
for  being  unfaithful,  and  summoned  all  his  strength  to  show 
her  that  by  the  promise  with  which  he  had  bound  himself 
he  would  abide.  He  looked  at  her  as  though  in  very  truth 
he  had  never  seen  her  before.  And  the  girl  took  his  stony 
look  at  if  he  had  struck  her,  and  fell  away  from  the  door, 
so  that  they  saw  her  no  longer. 

"Looked  as  if  she'd  seen  someone  she  knew  in  here," 
remarked  Hutchins,  complacently.  He  was  always  pleased 
when  people  noticed  Eliza,  for  he  considered  her  a  credit  to 
the  house. 

The  others  made  no  remark,  and  Bates  felt  absurdly  glad 
that  he  had  seen  her,  not  that  it  advanced  his  desire,  but 
yet  he  was  glad;  and  he  had  shown  her,  too,  that  she  need 
not  fear  him. 

And  Eliza — she  went  on  past  the  door  to  the  verandah, 
and  stood  in  sight  of  the  boarders,  who  were  there,  in  sight 
of  the  open  street;  but  she  did  not  see  anyone  or  anything. 
She  was  too  common  a  figure  at  that  door  to  be  much 
noticed,  but  if  anyone  had  observed  her  it  would  have  been 
seen  that  she  was  standing  stolidly,  not  taking  part  in  what 
was  before  her,  but  that  her  white  face,  which  never  col- 
oured prettily  like  other  women's,  bore  now  a  deepening 
tint,  as  if  some  pale  torturing  flame  were  lapping  about  her; 
there  was  something  on  her  face  that  suggested  the  quiver- 
ing of  flames. 

In  a  few  minutes  she  went  back  into  the  bar-room. 

"Mr.  Hutchins,"  she  said,  and  here  followed  a  request, 
that  was  almost  a  command,  that  he  should  attend  to  some- 
thing needing  his  oversiglit  in  the  stable-yard. 

Hutchins  grumbled,  apologised  to  Bates ;  but  Eliza  stood 


CHAP.  XIl] 


WHAT  JVECL'SS/TV  KNOIVS 


383 


» 


still,  and  he  went.  She  continued  to  stand,  and  her  atti. 
tude,  her  forbidding  air,  the  whole  atmosphere  of  her  pres- 
ence, was  such  that  the  two  men  who  were  on  the  eve  of 
departure  went  some  minutes  before  they  otherwise  would 
have  done,  though  perhaps  they  hardly  knew  why  they 
went. 

"Mr.  Bates!  You're  awfully  angry  with  me,  Mr.  Bates, 
I'm  afraid." 

He  got  up  out  of  his  chair,  in  his  petty  vanity  trying  to 
stand  before  her  as  if  he  were  a  strong  man.  "Angry!" 
he  echoed,  for  he  did  not  know  what  he  said. 

"Yes,  you're  angry;  I  know  by  the  way  you  looked  at 
me,"  she  complained  sullenly.  "  You  think  I'm  not  fit  to 
look  at,  or  to  speak  to,  and " 

They  stood  together  in  the  common  bar-room.  Except 
for  the  gay  array  of  bottles  behind  the  bar  the  place  was 
perfectly  bare,  and  it  was  open  on  all  sides.  She  did  not 
look  out  of  door  or  windows  to  see  who  might  be  staring  at 
them,  but  he  did.  He  had  it  so  fixed  in  his  faithful  heart 
that  he  must  not  compromise  her,  that  he  was  in  a  tremor 
lest  she  should  betray  herself.  He  leaned  on  the  back  of 
his  chair,  breathing  hard,  and  striving  to  appear  easy. 

"No,  but  I'm  thinking,  Sissy " 

"You're  dreadfully  ill,  Mr.  Bates,  I'm  afraid." 

"  No,  but  I  was  thinking.  Sissy,  I  must  see  ye  again  before 
I  go.  I've  that  to  say  to  ye  that  must  be  said  before  I  go 
home." 

"Home!"  She  repeated  the  word  like  the  word  of  a 
familiar  language  she  had  not  heard  for  long.  "Are  you 
going  home?" 

"Where  will  ye  see  me?"  he  urged. 

"Anywhere you  like,"  she  said  listlessly,  and  then  added 
with  sudden  determination,  "I'll  come." 

"Hoots!"  he  said,  '■'where  will  ye  come?" 

"Where?"  she  said,  looking  at  him  keenly  as  if  to  gauge 
his  strength  or  weakness.  "  You're  not  fit  to  be  much  on 
your  feet." 


384 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  iti 


"Can  you  come  in  the  bush  at  the  back  of  the  college? 
It  would  be  little  harm  for  you  to  speak  to  me  there.  When 
can  ye  coine?" 

"To-morrow  morning." 

"How  can  ye  '•ome  of  a  morning?    Your  time's  not  your 


own 


» 


"I  say  I'll  come."  She  enunciated  the  words  emphati- 
cally as  Hutchins's  crutches  were  heard  coming  near  the 
door.     Then  she  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

The  wood  behind  the  college  grounds  and  Captain  Rex- 
ford's  pasture  had  appeared  to  Bates  to  be  a  place  possessed 
only  by  the  winds  of  heaven  and  by  such  sunshine  and 
shadow  as  might  fall  to  its  share.  He  had  formed  this 
estimate  of  it  while  he  had  lain  for  many  days  watching  the 
waving  of  its  boughs  from  out  his  window,  and  therefore  he 
had  named  it  to  Eliza  as  a  place  where  he  could  talk  to  her. 
Eliza  well  knew  that  this  wood  was  no  secluded  spot  in  the 
season  of  summer  visitors,  but  she  was  in  too  reckless  a 
mood  to  care  for  this,  any  more  than  she  cared  for  the  fact 
that  she  had  no  right  to  leave  the  hotel  in  the  morning. 
She  left  that  busy  house,  not  caring  whether  it  suffered  in 
her  absence  or  not,  and  went  to  the  appointed  place,  heed- 
less of  the  knowledge  that  she  was  as  likely  as  not  to  meet 
with  some  of  her  acquaintances  there.  Yet,  as  she  walked, 
no  one  seeing  her  would  have  thought  that  this  young 
woman  had  a  heart  rendered  miserable  by  her  own  acts  and 
their  legitimate  outcome.  In  her  large  comeliness  she  sug- 
gested less  of  feeling  than  of  force,  just  as  the  gown  she 
wore  had  more  pretension  to  fashion  than  to  grace. 

When  she  entered  the  wood  it  was  yet  early  morning. 
Bates  was  not  there.  She  had  come  thus  early  because  she 
feared  hindrance  to  her  coming,  not  because  she  cared  when 


CHAP.  XIII]  IVNAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


385 


and 

|sug- 

sbe 


[ing. 

she 

rhen 


he  came.  Slie  went  into  the  younji^  si)ruoe  fringes  of  the 
wood  near  the  Rexford  pasture,  and  sat  down  where  she  had 
before  sat  to  watcli  Principal  Trenholme's  house.  The 
leaves  of  the  elm  above  her  were  turning  yellow;  the  suu- 
laden  wind  that  came  between  the  spruce  shades  seemed 
chill  to  her;  she  felt  cold,  an  unusual  thing  for  her,  and 
the  time  seemed  terribly  long.  When  she  saw  Bates  com- 
ing she  went  to  the  more  frequented  aisles  of  the  trees  to 
meet  him. 

Bates  had  never  been  a  tall  man,  but  now,  thin  and  weak, 
he  seemed  a  small  one,  although  he  still  strove  to  hold 
himself  up  manfully.  His  face  this  day  was  grey  with  the 
weariness  of  a  sleepless  night,  and  his  eii'iny,  asthma,  was 
hard  upon  him — a  man's  asthma,  that  is  a  fierce  thing 
because  it  is  not  yielded  to  gracefully,  but  is  struggled 
against. 

"Oh,  but  you're  ill,  Mr.  Bates,"  she  said,  relapsing  into 
that  repeated  expression  of  yesterday. 

"I'm  no  so  ill  as  I — I  seem,"  he  panted,  "but  that's 
neither  here — nor  there." 

This  was  their  greeting.  Round  them  the  grass  was 
littered  by  old  picnic  papers,  and  this  vulgar  marring  of 
the  woodland  glade  was  curiously  akin  to  the  character  of 
this  crucial  interview  between  them,  for  the  beauty  of  its 
inner  import  was  overlaid  with  much  that  was  common  and 
garish.  A  rude  bench  had  been  knocked  together  by  some 
picnicker  of  the  past,  and  on  this  Bates  was  fain  to  sit  down 
to  regain  his  breath.  Sissy  stood  near  him,  plucking  at 
some  coloured  leaves  she  had  picked  up  in  her  restlessness. 

"You  think  of  going  back  to  the  old  place,"  she  said, 
because  he  could  not  speak. 

"Aye." 

"Miss  Bates  is  keeping  pretty  well?" — this  in  conven- 
tional tone  that  was  oddly  mortised  into  the  passionate 
working  of  her  mind. 

"Oh,  aye." 

"  Why  wouldn't  you  sell  it  and  live  in  a  town?  " 


D  I 


386 


IVNAT  NF.CESS/TV  KNOWS 


[book  III 


I 


hi 


"It's  the  only  air  there  I  cun  he  hreatliiiig,"  said  he;  the 
confession  was  wrung  from  him  by  his  present  struggle  for 
breath.     "  I'm  not  fit  for  a  town." 

"  I  hear  them  saying  down  at  the  hotel  that  you're  awfully 
ill." 

"It's  not  mortal,  the  doctor  says.'' 

"You'll  need  someone  to  take  care  of  you,  Mr.  Bates." 

"Oh,  I'll  get  that." 

He  spoke  as  if  setting  aside  the  subject  of  his  welfare 
with  impatience,  and  she  let  it  drop;  but  because  he  was 
yet  too  breathless  to  speak  his  mind,  she  began  again: 

"  I  don't  mind  if  you  don't  sell,  for  I  don't  want  to  get 
any  money." 

"Oh,  but  ye  can  sell  when  I'm  gone;  it'll  be  worth  more 
then  than  now.  I'm  just  keeping  a  place  I  can  breathe  in, 
ye  understand,  as  long  as  I  go  on  breathing." 

She  pulled  the  leaves  in  her  hand,  tearing  them  length- 
wise and  crosswise. 

"  "What  I  want — to  ask  of  ye  now  is — what  I  want  to  ask 
ye  first  is  a  solemn  question.  Do  ye  know  where  your 
father's  corpse — is  laid?  " 

"Yes,  I  know,"  she  said.  "He  didn't  care  anything 
about  cemeteries,  father  didn't." 

He  looked  at  her  keenly,  and  there  was  a  certain  stern 
setting  of  his  strong  lower  jaw.  His  words  were  quick: 
"Tell  on." 

"'Twas  you  that  made  me  do  it,"  said  she,  sullenly. 

"  Do  what?    What  did  ye  do?  " 

"I  buried  my  father." 

"  Did  ye  set  Saul  to  do  it?  " 

"No;  what  should  I  have  to  do  asking  a  man  like  Saul?  " 

"Lassie,  lassie!  it's  no  for  me  to  condemn  ye,  nor  maybe 
for  the  dead  either,  for  he  was  whiles  a  hard  father  to 
you,  but  I  wonder  your  own  woman's  heart  didn't  mis- 
give ye." 

Perhaps,  for  all  he  knew,  it  had  misgiven  her  often,  but 
she  did  not  say  so  now. 


CHAP.  XIII]  IVHAT  NECFSSITV  KNOWS 


387 


lybe 
t  to 

lis- 

but 


"In  the  clearin's  all  round  Turrifs  tliey  buried  01  their 
own  lands,"  she  said,  still  sullen. 

"  Ye  buried  him  on  hij  own  land ! "  he  exclaimed,  the 
wonder  of  it  growing  upon  him.  "When?  Where?  Out 
with  it!     Make  a  clean  breast  of  it." 

"  I  buried  him  that  night.  The  coffin  slipped  easy  enough 
out  of  'he  window  and  on  the  dry  leaves  when  I  dragged  it. 
I  laid  him  between  the  rocks  at  tlie  side,  just  under  where 
the  bank  was  going  to  fall,  and  then  I  went  up  and  pushed 
the  bank  down  on  him."  She  looked  up  and  cried  defiantly : 
"Father'd  as  soon  lie  there  as  in  a  cemetery!"  Although 
it  was  as  if  she  was  crushing  beneath  her  heel  that  worship 
of  conventionality  which  had  made  Bates  try  to  send  the 
body  so  far  to  a  better  grave,  there  was  still  in  her  last 
■  .'ords  a  tone  of  pathos  which  surprised  even  herself.  Some- 
thing in  the  softening  influences  which  had  been  about  her 
since  that  crisis  of  her  young  life  made  her  feel  more  ruth 
at  the  recital  of  the  deed  than  she  had  felt  at  its  doing. 
"I  made  a  bed  of  moss  and  leaves,"  she  said,  "and  I  sliut 
up  the  ledge  he  lay  in  with  bits  of  rock,  so  that  naught  could 
touch  him." 

"But — but  I  dug  there,"  cried  Bates.  (In  his  surprise 
the  nervous  affection  of  his  breath  had  largely  left  him.) 
"  I  dug  where  the  bank  had  fallen ;  for  I  had  strange  thoughts 
o'  what  ye  might  have  been  driven  to  when  I  was  long 
alone,  and  I  dug,  but  his  body  wasna'  there." 

It  was  curious  that,  even  after  her  confession,  he  should 
feel  need  to  excuse  himself  for  his  suspicion. 

"  There  was  a  sort  of  a  cleft  sideways  in  the  rock  at  the 
side  of  the  stream;  you'd  never  have  seen  it,  for  I  only  saw 
it  myself  by  hanging  over,  holding  by  a  tree.  No  one  would 
ever  have  thought  o'  digging  there  when  I'd  closed  up  the 
opening  with  stones;  I  thought  o'  that  when  I  put  him  in." 

He  got  up  and  took  a  step  or  two  about,  but  he  gave  no 
gesture  or  prayer  or  word  of  pain.  "The  sin  lies  at  my 
door,"  he  said. 

"Well,  yes,  Mr.  Bates,  you  drove  me  to  it,  but- 


» 


jF 


388 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  III 


Her  tone,  so  diiferont  from  his,  he  interrupted.     "Don't 
say  'but,'  making  it  out  less  black.     Tell   what  ye  did 


more. 


V 


Then  she  told  him,  coolly  enough,  how  she  had  arranged 
the  bedclothes  to  look  as  though  she  slept  under  them:  how 
she  had  got  into  the  box  because,  by  reason  of  the  knot- 
hole in  the  lid,  she  had  been  able  to  draw  it  over  her,  and 
set  the  few  nails  that  were  hanging  in  it  in  their  places. 
She  told  him  how  she  had  laughed  to  herself  when  he  took 
her  with  such  speed  and  care  across  the  lake  that  was  her 
prison  wall.  She  told  him  that,  being  afraid  to  encounter 
Saul  alone,  she  had  lain  quiet,  intending  to  get  out  at  Tur- 
rifs,  but  that  when  she  found  herself  in  a  lonely  house  with 
a  strange  man,  she  was  frightened  and  ran  out  into  the  birch 
woods,  where  her  winding-sheet  had  been  her  concealment 
as  she  ran  for  miles  among  the  white  trees ;  how  she  then 
met  a  squaw  who  helped  her  to  stop  the  coming  railway 
train. 

"We  lit  a  fire,"  she  said,  "  and  the  Indian  woman  and  the 
children  stood  in  the  light  of  it  and  brandished ;  and  further 
on,  where  it  was  quite  dark,  we  had  got  a  biggish  log  or 
two  and  dragged  them  across  the  track,  so  when  the  train 
stopped  the  men  came  and  found  them  there ;  and  I  went 
round  to  the  back  and  got  on  the  cars  when  all  the  men 
were  off  and  they  didn't  come  near  me  till  morning.  I 
thought  they'd  find  me,  and  I'd  got  money  to  pay,  but  I  got 
mixed  up  with  the  people  that  were  asleep.  I  gave  the 
squaw  one  of  your  aunt's  gold  pieces  for  helping,  but" — 
with  a  sneer — "the  passengers  gave  her  money  too.  I 
made  sure  she'd  not  tell  on  me,  for  if  she  had  she'd  have 
got  in  jail  for  stopping  the  train." 

"Puir  body,"  said  he;  "like  enough  all  she  had  seen  o' 
men  would  make  her  think,  too,  she  had  no  call  to  say 
anything,  though  she  must  have  known  of  the  hue  and  cry 
in  the  place." 

"  More  like  she  wanted  to  save  herself  from  suspicion  of 
what  she  had  done,"  said  Eliza,  practically. 


if 
III 


CHAP,  xiii]         WHAT  NECFSLITV  k'NOH'S 


3% 


I 

lave 


cry 
of 


She  still  stood  before  him  on  tlie  -'uth,  the  strong  firm 
muscles  of  her  frame  holding  her  erect  and  still  without 
effort  of  her  will.  The  stillness  of  her  pose,  the  fashiona- 
bleness  of  gown  and  hat,  and  the  broad  display  of  her  radi- 
ant hair,  made  a  painful  impression  on  Batc^  as  he  looked, 
but  the  impression  on  two  other  men  who  went  by  just  then 
was  apparently  otherwise.  They  were  a  pair  of  young 
tourists  who  stared  as  they  passed. 

"By  Jove,  what  a  magnilicent  girl!"  said  one  to  the 
other  just  before  they  were  out  of  hearing.  There  was 
that  of  consciousness  in  his  tone  which  betrayed  that  he 
thought  his  own  accents  and  choice  words  were  well  worthy 
her  attention. 

Eliza  turned  her  back  to  the  direction  in  which  the 
strangers  had  gone,  thus  covering  the  spare  man  to  whom 
she  was  talking  from  their  backward  glances.  Bates,  who 
was  looking  up  at  her  face  with  his  heart-hunger  in  his 
eyes,  saw  a  look  of  contempt  for  the  passing  remark  flit 
across  her  face,  and  because  of  the  fond  craving  of  his  own 
heart,  his  sympathy,  strangely  enough,  went  out  to  the 
young  man  who  had  poken,  rather  than  to  her  sentiment 
of  contempt.  The  angel  of  human  loves  alone  could  tell 
why  John  Bates  loved  this  girl  after  all  that  had  passed, 
but  he  did  love  her. 

And  perceiving  now  that  she  had  told  what  she  had  to 
tell,  he  turned  his  mind  to  that  something  that  lay  on  his 
mind  to  say  to  her.  With  the  burden  of  the  thought  he 
rose  up  again  from  his  rude  seat,  and  he  held  up  his  head 
to  look  at  her  as  with  effort;  she  was  so  tall  that  he  still 
must  needs  look  up. 

"All's  said  that  need  be  said,  Sissy,  between  us  two." 
His  voice  was  almost  hard  because  he  would  not  betray  his 
wistfulness.  "  Ye  have  chosen  your  own  way  o'  life,  and  I 
willna  raise  a  cry  to  alter  it;  I'm  no  fit  for  that.  If  I  could 
shape  ye  to  my  pleasure,  I  see  now  I'd  make  a  poor  thing 
of  it.  Ye  can  do  better  for  yourself  if — if " — his  square 
jaw  seemed  almost  to  tremble — "  if  ye'll  have  a  heart  in  ye, 


L 


i. ;! 


■I '  'li 


t! 


390  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  hi 

lassie.  Forgive  me  if  I  seem  to  instruct  ye,  for  I've  no 
thought  in  me  now  that  I  could  make  ye  better  if  I  tried." 

He  stopped  again,  and  she  saw  his  weak  frame  moving 
nervously;  she  thouglit  it  was  for  want  of  breath. 

"You're  awfully  ill,  Mr.  Bates,"  she  said,  in  dulness 
repeating  words  that  she  seemed  to  have  got  by  heart. 

Her  stupid  pity  stung  him  into  further  speech. 

"  Oh,  lassie,  it's  not  because  I'm  fond  of  ye  that  I  say  it, 
for  what  does  it  matter  about  me,  but  because  of  all  the 
men  in  the  world  that  love  women.  It's  God's  voice 
through  them  to  you;  and  (although  I  can't  rightly  frame 
it  into  words)  because  God  set  men  and  women  in  families, 
and  gave  them  to  have  affections,  I  tell  ye  the  soul  in 
which  the  pride  o'  life,  or  pleasure,  or  the  like  o'  that, 
takes  the  place  of  the  affections  is  a  lost  soul."  Again  his 
harsh  mouth  trembled,  and  the  words  came  with  effort. 
"Sissy  Cameron,  ye've  not  known  a  mother  nor  a  sister, 
and  your  father  was  hard,  and  I  who  loved  ye  was  worse 
than  a  brute,  and  I  can't  rightly  say  what  I  would;  but 
when  I'm  gone,  look  round  ye,  lassie,  at  the  best  women 
ye  know  that  are  wives  and  mothers,  and  if  ye  can't  greet 
at  the  things  they  greet  at,  and  if  ye  laugh  at  things  they 
don't  laugh  at,  and  if  ye  don't  fear  to  do  the  things  they 
fear,  then,  even  if  your  cleverness  should  make  ye  queen 
o'  the  whole  world,  God  pity  ye !  " 

"Yes,  Mr.  Bates,"  she  said,  just  as  she  used  to  when  she 
said  the  catechism  to  him  and  he  admonished  her.  She 
had  listened  to  hira  with  that  dull  half-attention  which  we 
give  to  good-sounding  words  when  our  heart  is  only  alert 
for  something  for  which  we  yet  wait.  She  had  it  firmly  in 
her  mind  that  he  was  going  to  say  something  on  which 
would  hang  her  future  fate,  that  he  would  either  still  ask 
her,  in  spite  of  all  she  had  said,  to  go  back  with  him,  or 
would  tell  her  that  he  would  not  have  her  now,  as  the 
American  had  done.  All  her  sensibilities  lay,  as  it  were, 
numb  with  waiting;  she  had  no  purpose  concerning  the 
answer  she  would  make  him;  her  mind  was  still  full  of 


CHAP.  XIII]  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


39' 


she 
She 

we 
ilert 

liich 
ask 
or 
the 

fere, 
the 

11  of 


invective  and  complaint;  it  was  also  full  of  a  dull  nnnorso 
that  might  melt  into  contrition;  either  or  both  must  break 
forth  if  he  said  that  which  appealed  to  words  in  her. 

When  Bates  saw,  however,  that  the  little  sermon  which 
he  had  wrung  from  his  heart  with  so  much  pain  had  not 
impressed  her  much,  he  felt  as  if  he  had  never  known  nntil 
then  the  sharpest  pain  of  sorrow,  for  although  he  did  not 
know  what  he  had  hoped  for,  there  had  been  hope  in  pro- 
portion to  effort,  and  disappointment,  the  acutest  form  of 
sorrow,  cut  him  to  the  heart.  He  did  not  moan  or  bewail, 
that  was  not  his  way.  He  stood  holding  himself  stifHy, 
as  was  his  wont,  and  pain  laid  emphasis  on  the  severe  and 
resolute  lines  upon  his  face,  for  a  face  that  has  long  been 
lent  as  a  vehicle  for  stern  thoughts  does  not  express  a  milder 
influence,  although  the  depths  of  the  heart  are  broken  up. 

She  looked  at  his  face,  and  the  main  drift  of  what  he 
had  said  was  interpreted  by  his  look;  she  had  expected 
censure  and  took  for  granted  that  all  this  was  reproof. 

"  I  don't  see,  Mr.  Bates  " — her  tone  was  full  of  bitter- 
ness— "that  you've  got  ;iny  call  to  stand  there  handing  me 
over  as  if  I  was  a  leper." 

To  which  he  answered  angrily,  "Bairn,  haven't  I  told 
you  once  and  again  that  I  take  your  sin  on  my  own  soul?" 

"Well  then" — still  in  angry  complaint — "what  right 
have  you  to  be  looking  and  talking  of  me  as  if  nothing  was 
to  be  expected  of  me  but  ill?" 

So  he  believed  that  it  was  worse  than  useless  to  speak  to 
her.  He  drew  his  hand  over  his  lieavy  eyebrows.  He 
thought  to  himself  that  he  would  go  home  now,  that  he 
would  start  that  day  or  the  next  and  never  see  her  again, 
and  in  the  decision  he  began  walking  away,  forgetting  the 
word  "  good-bye  "  and  all  '^3  courtesy,  because  oblivious  of 
everything  except  that  thought  that  he  was  unfit  for  any- 
thing but  to  go  and  live  out  his  time  in  the  desolate  home. 
But  when  he  had  got  about  twenty  paces  from  her  he  re- 
membered that  he  had  said  no  farewell,  and  turned,  looked 
back,  and  came  to  her  again,  his  heart  beating  like  a  boy's. 


I 


.192 


H'JIAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[hook  iir 


ill,:! 


She  stood  wlioro  lie  liad  left  her,  sullen,  with  head 
slightly  bent,  and  tearing  the  same  leaves.  Bates  recog- 
nised her  beauty  to  the  full,  as  much  as  any  other  man 
could  have  done,  but  it  onl}'  hurt  him  and  made  him  afraid. 
He  looked  at  her,  timid  as  a  child,  yet  manfully  ignoring 
his  timidity,  he  tried  to  smile  to  her  as  he  said, 

"Bairn,  1  may  never  see  ye  in  this  world  again;  give 
your  old  teacher  a  kiss." 

Eliza  stared,  then  lent  her  face  to  be  kissed.  She  was 
surprised  at  the  gentleness  of  his  sparing  caress,  so  sur- 
prised that  when  she  lifted  her  head  she  stood  stock  still 
and  watched  him  till  he  was  out  of  sight,  for,  driven  by 
the  scourge  of  his  feeling,  he  went  away  from  her  with 
quick,  upright  gait,  never  looking  back. 

She  watched  him  till  he  disappeared  into  Trenholme's 
house.  When  she  walked  home  she  did  not  sob  or  wipe 
her  eyes  or  cover  her  face,  yet  when  she  got  to  the  hotel 
her  eyes  were  swollen  and  red,  and  she  went  about  her 
work  heedless  that  anyone  who  looked  at  her  must  see  the 
disfigurement  of  tears. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


E!  Hi 


III 


In  the  latter  part  of  that  day  Bates  suffered  a  fierce 
attack  of  his  malady.  Everyone  in  Trenholme's  house, 
including  the  master  himself  on  crutches,  became  agile  in 
their  desire  to  alleviate  the  suffering,  and  he  received  their 
ministrations  with  that  civility  which  denoted  that,  had 
conventionality  allowed,  he  would  not  have  received  them ; 
for  to  fling  all  that  is  given  him  at  the  heads  of  the  givers 
is  undoubtedly  the  conduct  that  nature  suggests  to  a  man 
in  pain.  Having  need,  however,  of  some  help.  Bates 
showed  now,  as  before,  an  evident  preference  for  Alec  as 
an  attendant,  a  preference  due  probably  to  the  fact  that 
Alec  never  did  anything  for  him  that  was  not  absolutely 
necessary,  and  did  that  only  in  the  most  cursory  way. 


CHAP.  XIV]  WHAT  ATECESS/TV  AWOU'S 


393 


ise, 
in 
leir 
lad 
iin; 
^ers 
ban 
ites 
as 
that 


When  A-lec  entered  liis  room  tliat  night  to  see,  as  he 
cheerfnlly  remarked,  whetlier  he  was  alive  or  not,  Bates 
turned  liis  faee  from  tlie  wall. 

"I  tliink  it  riglit  to  tell  ye,"  he  began,  and  his  tone  and 
manner  were  so  stiff  that  the  otlier  knew  something  painful 
was  coming,  "  I  think  it  right  to  tell  ye  that  Eliza  Came- 
ron is  alive  and  well.     I  have  seen  her." 

In  his  annoyance  to  tliink  a  meeting  had  occurred  Alec 
made  an  exclamation  that  served  very  well  for  the  sur- 
prise that  liates  exi)ected. 

"Her  father,"  continued  Bates,  "was  decently  buried, 
unknown  to  me,  on  his  own  land,  as  is  the  custom  in  those 
parts  of  the  country.  The  girl  was  the  person  ye  saw  get 
up  from  the  coffin — the  one  that  ye  were  so  frightened  of." 

This  last  word  of  explanation  was  apparently  added  that 
he  might  be  assured  Alec  followed  him,  and  the  listener, 
standing  still  in  the  half-darkened  room,  did  not  just  t,'  -^n 
feel  resentment  for  the  unnecessary  insult.  He  made  some 
sound  to  show  that  he  heard. 

"  Then  " — stiffly — "  she  took  the  train,  and  she  has  been 
living  here  ever  since,  a  very  respectable  young  woman, 
and  much  thought  of.     I'm  glad  to  have  seen  her." 

"Well?" 

"  I  thought  it  right  to  tell  ye,  and  I'm  going  home  to- 
morrow or  next  day." 

That  was  evidently  all  that  was  to  be  told  him,  and  Alec 
refrained  from  all  such  words  as  he  would  like  to  have 
emitted.  But  when  he  was  going  dumbly  out  of  the  room. 
Bates  spoke  again. 

"Ye're  young  yet;  when  ye  feel  inclined  to  give  your 
heart  to  any  young  thing  that  you've  a  caring  for,  gie  it 
as  on  the  altar  of  God,  and  not  for  what  ye'll  get  in  re- 
turn, and  if  ye  get  in  answer  what  ye're  wanting,  thank 
God  for  a  free  gift." 

Then  Alec  knew  that  Sissy  had  been  unkind  to  Bates. 

The  night  being  yet  early,  he  willingly  recognised  an 
obligation  to  go  and  tell  Miss  Rexford  tiiat  their  mutual 


1  n 


394 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  III 


1 11  " 


solicitude  had  in  some  way  been  rendered  needless.  It  was 
easy  for  him  to  find  the  lady  he  desired  to  see,  for  while 
the  weather  was  still  warm  it  was  the  habit  in  Chellaston 
to  spend  leisure  hours  outside  the  house  walls  rather  than 
in,  and  Alec  Trenholme  had  already  learned  that  at  evening 
in  the  llexford  household  the  father  and  brother  were  often 
exhausted  by  their  day's  work  and  asleep,  and  the  mother 
occupied  by  the  cribs  of  her  l:ttle  ones.  He  found  'he 
house,  as  usual,  all  open  to  the  warm  dry  autumn  evening, 
doors  and  windows  wide.  The  dusk  was  all  within  and 
without,  except  that,  with  notes  of  a  mother's  lullaby,  rays 
of  candle  light  fell  from  the  nursery  window.  As  his  feet 
brushed  the  nearer  grass,  he  dimly  saw  Miss  Rexford  rise 
from  a  hammock  swung  on  the  verandah,  where  she  had 
been  lounging  with  Winifred.  She  stood  behind  the  ve- 
randah railing,  and  he  in  the  grass  below,  and  they  talked 
together  on  tliis  subject  that  had  grown,  without  the  inten- 
tion of  either,  to  be  so  strong  a  bond  of  interest  between 
them.  Here  it  was  that  Alec  could  give  vent  to  the  pity 
and  indignation  which  he  could  not  express  to  the  man 
whose  sufferings  excited  these  emotions. 

In  spite  of  this  visit  Sophia  sought  Eliza  again  the  next 
day.  As  she  entered  the  hotel  Mr.  Hutchins  begged  a  word 
with  her  in  his  little  slate-painted  office,  saying  that  the 
young  housekeeper  had  not  been  like  herself  for  some  time, 
and  that  he  was  uneasy,  for  she  made  a  friend  of  no  one 

"Are  you  afraid  of  losing  her?"  asked  Miss  Rexford 
coldly,  with  slight  arching  of  her  brows. 

He  replied  candidly  that  he  had  no  interest  in  Eliza's 
joys  or  sorrows,  except  as  they  might  tend  to  unsettle  her  in 
her  place.  Having,  by  the  use  of  his  own  wits,  discovered 
her  ability,  he  felt  that  he  had  now  a  right  to  it. 

Sophia  went  upstairs,  as  she  was  directed,  to  Eliza's 
bedroom  on  the  highest  storey,  and  found  her  there,  look- 
ing over  piles  of  freshly  calendered  house  linen.  The  room 
was  large  enough,  and  pleasant — a  better  bedroom  tlian 
Sophia  or  her  sisters  at  present  possessed.     Eliza  was 


CHAP.  XIV]  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


395 


L-ed 


apparently  in  high,  spirits.  She  received  her  guest  with 
almost  loud  gaiety. 

"What  do  you  think's  happened  now,  Miss  Sophia?" 
cried  she.  "You  remember  what  I  told  you  about  Mrs. 
Glass?  Well,  there's  two  young  gentlemen  come  to  the 
house  here  yesterday  morning,  and  she's  entertained  them 
before  at  her  house  in  town,  so  they  struck  up  great  friends 
with  her  here,  and  yesterday  she  had  her  supper  served  in 
the  upstairs  parlour,  and  had  them,  and  me,  and  nobody 
else.  She  says  one  of  them  saw  me  out  yesterday  morn- 
ing, and  was  'smitten' — that's  what  she  calls  it." 

Eliza  gave  an  affected  laugh  as  she  repeated  the  vulgar 
word,  and  coloured  a  little.  "  She  says  if  I'll  come  to  see 
her  in  town  she's  no  doubt  but  that  he'll  'proiDOse.'  " 

"But  I  thought  you  were  not  going?" 

"I  don't  care  for  her,"  said  Eliza,  as  if  ingratitude  were 
a  virtue,  "but  I  rather  like  the  young  gentleman.  That 
makes  a  difference.  Look  here!  She  says  he's  getting 
on  in  business,  and  would  give  me  a  carriage.  How  do 
you  think  I  should  look  driving  in  a  carriage,  like  Mrs. 
Brown?     Should  I  look  as  grand  as  she  does?  " 

"  Much  grander,  I  daresay,  and  much  handsomer. " 

"They  all  give  dinner  parties  at  Montreal."  Eliza  said 
this  reflectively,  speaking  the  name  of  that  city  just  as  an 
English  country  girl  would  speak  of  "London."  "Don't 
you  think  I  could  go  to  dinner  parties  as  grand  as  anyone? 
And,  look  here,  they  showed  me  all  sorts  of  photographs 
the  Montreal  ladies  get  taken  of  themselves,  and  one  was 
taken  with  her  hair  down  and  her  side  face  turned.  And 
Mrs.  Glass  has  been  up  here  this  afternoon,  saying  tliat 
her  gentlemen  friends  say  I  must  be  taken  in  the  same 
way.  She  was  fixing  me  for  it.  Look,  I'll  show  you  how 
it  is." 

Her  great  masses  of  hair,  left  loose  apparently  from  this 
last  visit,  were  thrown  down  her  back  in  a  moment,  and 
Eliza,  looking-glass  in  hand,  sat  lierself  sideways  on  a 
chair,  and  disposed  her  hair  so  that  it  hung  with  shining 


i 


39^ 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  hi 


II 


till 


copper  glow  like  a  curtain  behind  her  pale  profile.  "  What 
do  I  look  like,  Miss  Sojihia?" 

"Like  what  you  are,  Eliza — a  handsome  girl." 

"  Then  why  shouldn't  I  marry  a  rich  man?  It  would  be 
easier  than  drudging  here,  and  yet  I  thought  it  was  grand 
to  be  here  last  year.  It's  easy  enough  to  get  up  in  the 
world." 

"  Yes,  when  anyone  has  the  right  qualities  for  it.'' 

"I  have  the  right  qualities." 

"  Unscrupulousness?  "  interrogated  Sophia;  and  then  she 
charged  the  girl  with  the  falsehood  of  her  name. 

Eliza  put  down  her  looking-glass  and  rolled  up  her  hair. 
There  was  something  almost  leonine  in  her  attitude,  in 
her  silence,  as  she  fastened  the  red  masses.  Sophia  felt 
the  influence  of  strong  feeling  upon  her;  she  almost  felt 
fear.     Then  Eliza  came  and  stood  in  front  of  her. 

"  Is  he  very  ill,  do  you  think,  Miss  Sophia?  " 

"Not  dangerously."  Sophia  had  no  doubb  as  to  who  was 
meant.  "If  he  would  only  take  reasonable  care  he'd  be 
pretty  well." 

"But  he  won't,"  she  cried.  "On  the  clearin',  when  he 
used  to  take  cold,  he'd  do  all  the  wrong  things.  He'll  just 
go  and  kill  himself  doing  like  that  now,  when  he  goes  back 
there  alone — and  winter  coming  on." 

"  Do  you  think  you  could  persuade  him  not  to  go?  " 

"  He's  just  that  sort  of  a  man  he'd  never  be  happy  any- 
where else.  He  hones  for  the  place.  No,  he'll  go  back 
and  kill  himself.  I'm  sorry,  but  it  can't  be  helped.  I'm 
not  sorry  I  came  away  from  him;  I'm  not  sorry  I  changed 
ray  name,  and  did  all  the  things  I  s'pose  he's  told  you  I 
did,  and  that  I  s'pose  you  think  are  so  wicked.  I'd  do  it 
again  if  I  was  as  frightened  and  as  angry.  Was  he  to  make 
me  his  slave- wife?  ThaVs  what  he  wanted  of  me!  I  know 
the  man!" — scornfully — "he  said  it  was  for  ray  good,  but 
it  was  his  own  way  he  wanted."  All  the  forced  quiescence 
of  her  manner  had  changed  to  fire.  "  And  if  you  think  that 
I'm  unnatural,  and  wicked  to  pretend  I  had  a  different 


CHAP.  XIV]  IVHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


397 


ed 
1  I 

it 
ike 
ow 
ut 
ce 
lat 
nt 


name,  and  to  do  wliat  I  did  to  get  (^uit  of  him,  then  I'll  go 
among  people  who  will  think  it  was  clever  and  a  fine  joke, 
and  will  think  more  about  my  fine  appearance  than  about 
being  good  all  day  long," 

Sophia  was  terribly  roused  by  the  torrent  of  feeling  that 
was  now  pouring  forth,  not  more  in  words,  than  in  silent 
force,  from  the  young  woman  who  stood  over  her. 

"Go!"  she  cried,  "go  to  such  people.  Marry  the  man 
who  cares  for  your  hair  and  your  good  looks.  Urge  him  on 
to  make  money,  and  buy  yourself  clothes  and  carriages  and 
houses.  I  have  no  doubt  you  can  do  it!  I  tell  you,  Eliza 
Cameron,  such  things  are  not  much  worth  picking  up  at  a 
gift,  let  alone  selling  the  nicer  part  of  yourself  for  them !  " 

The  two  had  suddenly  clashed,  with  Avord  and  feeling,  the 
one  against  the  other. 

The  window  of  Eliza's  room  was  open,  and  the  prospect 
from  it  had  that  far-oif  peace  that  the  prospect  from  high 
windows  is  apt  to  have.  The  perfect  weather  breathed  calm 
over  the  distant  land,  over  the  nearer  villge;  but  inside,  the 
full  light  fell  upon  the  two  women  aglow  with  their  quarrel. 

Sophia,  feeling  some  instinctive  link  to  the  vain,  ambi- 
tious girl  before  her,  struck  with  words  as  one  strikes  in  the 
dark,  aiming  at  a  depth  and  tenderness  that  she  dimly  felt 
to  be  there. 

She  believed  in,  and  yet  doubted,  the  strength  in  the 
better  part  of  Eliza's  heart;  believed,  but  spoke  hurriedly, 
because  she  felt  that  a  chilly  doubt  was  coming  over  her  as 
to  whether,  after  all,  there  was  any  comprehension,  any 
answering  thrill,  for  the  words  she  said. 

Her  own  stately  beauty  was  at  its  height,  at  its  loveliest 
hour,  when  she  spoke.  She  had  been,  in  girlhood,  what  is 
called  a  beauty;  she  had  dazzled  men's  eyes  and  turned 
their  heads;  and  when  the  first  bloom  was  past,  she  had 
gone  out  of  the  glare,  having  neither  satisfied  the  world  nor 
been  satisfied  with  it,  because  of  the  higher  craving  that  is 
worldly  disability.  She  had  turned  into  the  common  paths 
of  life  and  looked  upon  her  beauty  and  her  triumph  as  past. 


M 


ill' 


398 


WHAT  NEC  ESS/TV  KNOWS 


[book  III 


And  yet,  ten  years  after  the  triumphs  of  her  girlhood,  this 
day,  this  hour,  found  her  more  beautiful  than  she  had  ever 
been  before.  The  stimulus  of  a  new  and  more  perfect 
climate,  the  daily  labour  for  -vv'hich  others  pitied  her,  had 
done  their  part.  The  angels  who  watch  over  prayer  and 
effort  and  failure,  and  failure  and  effort  and  prayer,  had 
laid  their  hands  upon  her  brow,  bestowing  graces.  As  she 
sat  now,  speaking  out  of  a  full  heart,  there  came  a  colour 
and  light  that  gave  an  ethereal  charm  to  her  handsome  face. 
There  was  no  one  there  to  see  it;  Eliza  Cameron  was  not 
susceptible  to  beauty.  God,  who  created  beauty  in  flowers 
and  women,  and  knew  to  the  full  the  uses  thereof,  did  not 
set  flowers  in  gardeners'  shows  nor  women  in  ball-rooms. 

Sophia  had  spoken  strongly,  vividly,  of  the  vanity  of  what 
men  call  success,  and  the  emptiness  of  what  they  call  wealth, 
but  Eliza,  self-centred,  did  not  enter  into  this  wide  theme. 

"You  despise  me,"  she  repeated  sullenly,  "because  of 
what  I  have  done." 

"What  m?kes  you  think  I  despise  you?" 

She  did  not  intend  to  draw  a  confession  on  the  false  sup- 
position tl.  at  Bates  had  already  told  all  the  story,  but  this 
was  the  result.  Eliza,  with  arms  folded  defiantly,  stated 
such  details  of  her  conduct  as  she  supposed  would  render 
her  repulsive,  stated  them  badly,  and  evoked  that  feeling  of 
repulsion  that  slie  was  defying. 

Sophia  was  too  much  roused  to  need  time  for  thought.  "  I 
cannot  condemn  you,  for  I  have  done  as  bad  a  thing  as  you 
have  done,  and  for  the  same  reason,"  she  cried. 

Eliza  looked  at  her,  and  faltered  in  her  self-righteousness. 
"I  don't  believe  it,"  she  said  rudely.  She  fell  back  a  pace 
or  two,  and  took  to  sorting  the  piles  of  white  coverlets 
mechanically. 

"  You  did  what  you  did  because  of  everything  in  the  world 
that  you  wanted  that  you  thought  you  could  get  that  way; 
and,  for  the  same  reason,  I  once  agreed  to  marry  a  man  I 
didn't  like.  If  you  come  to  think  of  it,  that  was  as  horrid 
and  unnatural;  it  is  a  worse  thing  to  desecrate  the  life  of  a 


CHAP.  XIV]  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


399 


ets 

.rid 

ay, 
in  I 
rrid 
of  a 


living  man  than  the  death  of  a  dead  one.  I  stand  con- 
demned as  much  as  you,  Eliza;  but  don't  you  go  on  now  to 
add  to  one  unnatural  deed  another  as  bad." 

"Why  did  you  do  it?"  asked  Eliza,  drawn,  wondering, 
from  the  thought  of  herself. 

"I  thought  I  could  not  bear  poverty  and  the  crowd  of 
children  at  home,  and  that  fortune  and  rank  would  give  me 
all  I  wanted;  and  the  reason  I  didn't  go  through  witli  it 
was  that  through  his  generosity  I  tasted  all  the  advantages 
in  gifts  and  social  distinction  before  the  wedding  day,  and  I 
found  it  wasn't  worth  what  I  was  giving  for  it,  just  as  you 
will  find  some  day  that  all  you  can  gain  in  tlie  way  you  are 
going  now  is  not  worth  the  disagreeableness,  let  alone  the 
wrong,  of  the  wrong-doing." 

"  You  think  that  because  you  are  high-minded, "  said  Eliza, 
beginning  again  in  a  nervous  way  to  sort  the  linen. 

"So  are  you,  Eliza."  Miss  Kexford  wondered  whether 
she  was  true  or  false  in  saying  it,  whether  it  was  the  merest 
flattery  to  gain  an  end  or  the  generous  conviction  of  her 
heart.  She  did  not  know.  The  most  noble  truths  that  we 
utter  often  seem  to  us  doubtfully  true. 

Now  Sophia  felt  that  what  Eliza  had  said  was  only  the 
fact — that  it  was  very  sad  that  Mr.  Bates  should  go  ill  and 
alone  to  his  lonely  home,  but  that  it  could  not  be  helped. 
To  whatever  degree  of  repentance  and  new  resolution  Eliza 
might  be  brought,  Sophia  saw  no  way  whatever  of  materi- 
ally helping  Bates;  but  she  urged  the  girl  to  go  and  visit 
him,  and  say  such  kind  and  penitent  things  as  might  be  in 
her  power  to  say,  before  he  set  forth  on  his  melancholy 
journey. 

"Nu,"  said  Eliza,  "I  won't  go";  and  this  was  all  that 
could  be  obtained  from  her. 

The  visit  was  at  an  end.  Sophia  felt  that  it  had  been 
futile,  and  she  did  not  overlook  the  rebuff  to  herself.  With 
this  personal  affront  rankling,  and  indignation  that  Eliza 
should  still  feel  so  resentful  after  all  that  had  been  urged 
on  behalf  of  Bates,  she  made  her  way  into  the  street. 


400 


IF// AT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  hi 


liUil 


II 


She  was  feeling  that  life  was  a  weary  thing  when  she 
chanced,  near  the  end  of  the  village,  to  look  back,  and  saw 
Alec  Trenholme  some  way  behind,  but  coming  in  the  same 
direction.  Having  her  report  to  give,  she  waited  and 
brought  him  to  her  side. 

Sophia  told  all  that  had  just  passed,  speaking  wich  a  rest- 
ful feeling  of  confidence  in  him.  She  had  never  felt  just 
this  confidence  in  a  man  before;  it  sprang  up  from  some- 
where, she  knew  not  where;  probably  from  the  union  of  her 
sense  of  failure  and  his  strength.  She  even  told  him  the 
analogy  she  had  drawn  b(!tween  Eliza's  conduct  and  the 
mistake  of  her  own  life,  alluding  only  to  what  all  her  little 
public  knew  of  her  deeds;  but  it  seemed  to  iiim  tliat  she  was 
telling  what  was  sacred  to  lier  self -knowledge.  He  glanced 
at  her  often,  and  drank  in  all  the  pleasure  of  her  beauty. 
He  even  noticed  the  simplicity  of  the  cotton  gown  and 
leather  belt,  and  the  hat  that  was  trimmed  only  with  dried 
everlasting  flowers,  such  as  grew  in  every  field.  As  she 
talked  his  cane  struck  sometimes  a  sharp  passionate  blow 
among  plumes  of  golden-rod  that  grew  by  their  path,  and 
snapped  many  a  one. 

The  roadside  grass  was  ragged.  The  wild  plum  shrubs 
by  the  fences  were  bronzed  by  September.  In  the  fields  the 
stubble  was  yellow  and  brown.  The  scattered  white  houses 
were  all  agleam  in  the  clear,  cool  sunshine. 

As  he  listened,  Alec  Trenholme's  feeling  was  not  now 
wrought  upon  at  all  by  what  he  was  hearing  of  the  girl  who 
had  stumbled  in  and  out  of  his  life  in  ghostly  fashion. 
Her  masquerade,  with  all  its  consequences,  had  brought  him 
Avithin  near  touch  of  another  woman,  whose  personality  at 
this  hour  overshadowed  his  mind  to  the  exclusion  of  every 
other  interest.  He  was  capable  only  of  thinking  that  Sophia 
was  treating  him  as  a  well-known  friend.  The  compunc- 
tion suppressed  within  him  culminated  when,  at  her  father's 
gate,  Miss  Rexford  held  out  her  hand  for  the  good-bye  grasp 
of  his.  The  idea  that  he  was  playing  a  false  part  became 
intolerable.  Impulsively  he  showed  reluctance  to  take  the 
hand. 


CHAP.  XIV]  WHAT  NECESSITY  K'NOIVS 


401 


"Miss  Rcxford,  I — I'm  afraid  you  tliiiik- 


» 


Then  he  remenibered  the  promise  by  wliicTi  he  was  bound 
to  let  llobert  tell  his  own  story.  Confused,  he  seemed  to 
know  nothing  but  that  he  must  finish  his  sentence  to  satisfy 
the  interrogation  in  her  eyes. 

"  Y(m  think  I  am  a  gentleman  like  Kobert.  I  ajn  only 
a " 

"  What?  "  she  asked,  looking  upon  him  good-humouredly, 
as  she  would  have  looked  upon  a  blundering  boy. 

"I  am  only  a — a — cad,  you  know." 

His  face  had  an  uncomfortable  look,  hot  and  red.  She 
was  puzzled,  but  the  meaning  that  was  in  his  thought  did 
not  enter  hers.  In  a  moment  that  romantic  didacticism 
which  was  one  of  the  strongest  elements  in  her  character 
had  struck  his  strange  words  into  its  own  music. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Trenholme !  "  she  cried ;  "  do  not  so  far  outdo 
us  all  in  the  grace  of  confession.  We  are  all  willing  to  own 
ourselves  sinners;  but  to  confess  to  vulgarity,  to  be  willing 
to  admit  that  in  us  personally  there  is  a  vein  of  something 
vulgar,  that,  to  our  shame,  we  sometimes  strike  upon !  Ah, 
people  must  be  far  nobler  than  they  are  before  that  clause 
can  be  added  to  the  General  Confession!  " 

He  looked  at  her,  and  hardly  heard  her  words ;  but  went 
on  his  way  with  eyes  dazzled  and  heart  tumultuous. 

W^lien  at  home  he  turned  into  the  study,  where  his  brother 
was  still  a  prisoner.  The  autumn  breeze  and  sunshine 
entered  even  into  this  domain  of  books  and  })apers.  The 
little  garden  was  so  brimful  of  bloom  that  it  overflowed 
within  the  window-sill. 

When  he  had  loitered  long  enough  to  make  believe  that 
he  had  not  come  in  for  the  sake  of  this  speech.  Alec  said, 
"  I'm  going  to  the  West — at  least,  when  Bates  is  gone,  I'll 
go;  and,  look  here,  I  don't  know  that  I'd  say  anything  to 
these  people  if  I  were  in  your  case.  Don't  feel  any  obliga- 
tion to  say  any  thin    on  my  account." 

Principal  Trenh  ine  was  at  his  writing-table.  "Ah?" 
said  he,  prolonging  the  interrogation  with  benign  inflection, 


402 


WHAT  NKCESSirV  KNOWS 


[hook  III 


"Have  you  come  to  doubt  tlie  righteousness  of  your  own 
conclusions?"     But  he  did  not  discuss  the  subject  furtlier. 

He  was  busy,  for  the  students  and  masters  of  the  college 
were  to  assemble  in  a  few  days;  yet  he  found  time  in  a 
minute  or  two  to  ask  idly,  "Wliere  have  you  been?" 

"  For  one  thing,  I  walked  out  from  the  village  with  Miss 
liexford." 

"  And  " — with  eyes  bent  upon  his  writing — "  what  do  you 
think  of  Miss  liexford?" 

Never  was  question  put  with  less  suspicion;  it  was 
interesting  to  Robert  only  for  the  pleasure  it  gave  him  to 
pronounce  her  name,  not  at  all  for  any  weight  that  he 
attached  to  the  answer.  And  Alec  answered  him  indiffer- 
ently. 

"She  has  a  pretty  face,"  said  he,  nearing  the  door. 

"Yes,"  the  other  answered  musingly,  "yes;  'her  face  is 
one  of  God  Almighty's  wonders  in  a  little  compass.'  " 

But  Alec  had  gone  out,  and  did  not  liear  the  words  nor 
see  the  dream  of  love  that  they  brouglit  into  the  other's 
eyes.  There  was  still  hope  in  that  dream,  the  sort  of  hope 
that  springs  up  again  unawares  from  the  ground  where  it 
has  been  slain. 


CHAPTEE  XV. 

It  had  not  been  continued  resentment  against  Bates  that 
had  made  Eliza  refuse  Miss  Rexford's  request;  it  was  the 
memory  of  the  kiss  with  which  he  had  bade  her  good-bye. 
For  two  days  she  had  been  haunted  by  this  memory,  yet 
disregarded  it,  but  when  that  night  came,  disturbed  by 
Sophia's  words,  she  locked  out  the  world  and  took  the  thing 
to  her  heart  to  see  of  what  stuff  it  was  made. 

Eliza  lived  her  last  interview  with  Bates  over  and  over 
again,  until  she  put  out  her  light,  and  sat  by  her  bedside 
alone  in  the  darkness,  and  wondered  at  herself  and  at  all 
things,  for  his  farewell  was  like  a  lens  through  which  she 
looked  and  the  proportion  of  her  world  was  changed. 


CHAI'.  XV] 


WHAT  JV/XVCSS/TV  KIVOll'S 


403 


over 
Iside 
it  all 
she 


There  is  strange  fascination  in  looking  at  familiar  scenes 
in  unfamiliar  aspect.  Even  little  cliildren  know  this  when, 
from  some  swinging  branch,  they  turn  their  heads  down- 
wards, and  see,  not  their  own  field,  but  fairyland. 

Eliza  glanced  at  her  past  wliile  her  sight  was  yet  dis- 
torted, it  might  be,  or  quickened  to  clearer  vision,  by  a  new 
pulse  of  feeling;  and,  arrested,  glanced  again  and  again 
until  she  looked  clearly,  steadily,  at  the  retrospect.  Tlie 
lonely  farm  in  the  hills  was  again  present  to  her  eyes,  the 
old  woman,  the  father  now  dead,  and  this  man,  Bates,  stern 
and  o[)inionated,  who  had  so  constantly  tutored  her.  Her 
mind  went  back,  dwelling  on  details  of  that  home-life;  how 
Bates  had  ruled,  commanded,  praised,  and  chidden,  and  she 
had  been  indifferent  to  his  rule  until  an  hour  of  fear  had 
turned  inditference  into  hate.  It  was  very  strange  to  look 
at  it  all  now,  to  lay  it  side  by  side  with  a  lover's  kiss  and 
this  same  man  her  lover. 

Perhaps  it  was  a  sense  of  new  power  that  thrilled  her  so 
strangely.  It  needed  no  course  of  reasoning  to  tell  her  that 
she  was  mistress  now,  and  he  slave.  His  words  had  never 
conveyed  it  to  her,  but  by  this  sign  she  knew  it  with  the 
same  sort  of  certainty  we  have  that  there  is  life  in  breath. 
She  had  sought  power,  but  not  this  power.  Of  this  domin- 
ion she  had  never  dreamed,  but  she  was  not  so  paltry  at 
heart  but  that  it  humbled  her.  She  whispered  to  herself 
that  she  wished  this  had  not  been;  and  yet  she  knew  that 
to  herself  she  lied,  for  she  would  rather  have  obliterated  all 
else  in  the  universe  than  the  moment  in  which  Bates  had 
said  farewell.  The  universe  held  for  her,  as  for  everyone, 
just  so  much  of  the  high  and  holy  as  she  had  opened  her 
heart  to;  and,  poor  girl,  her  heart  had  been  shut  so  that 
this  caress  of  the  man  whose  life  had  been  nearly  wrecked 
by  her  deed  was  the  highest,  holiest  thing  tliat  had  yet 
found  entrance  there,  and  it  brought  with  it  into  the  dark- 
ness of  her  heart,  unrecognised  but  none  the  less  there,  the 
Heaven  which  is  beyond  all  selfless  love,  the  God  who  is  its 
source.     Other  men  might  have  proffered  lavish  affection  in 


ill 


f! 


404 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  III 


vain,  but  in  tliis  man's  kiss,  coming  out  of  his  Immiliation  and 
resign.ition,  tliore  breathed  the  power  thjit  moves  the  world. 
She  cUd  not  consider  now  whether  Bates's  suffering  had 
been  of  liis  own  making  or  hers.  She  was  not  now  engaged 
in  an  exercise  of  repentance;  compunction,  if  she  felt  it, 
came  to  her  in  a  nervous  tremor,  a  sob,  a  tear,  not  in 
intelligible  thought.  Her  memory  gave  her  pictures,  and 
the  rest  was  feeling — dumb,  even  within.  She  crouched 
upon  the  floor  and  leaned  her  head  against  the  bedside. 
Dry,  trembling  sobs  came  at  intervals,  passing  over  her  as 
if  some  outside  force  had  shaken  and  left  her  again;  and 
sometimes,  in  the  quiet  of  the  interval,  her  lips  smiled,  but 
the  darkness  was  around.  Then,  at  length,  came  tran- 
quillity. Her  imagination,  which  had  been  strained  to  work 
at  the  bidding  of  memory,  in  weariness  released  itself  from 
hard  reality,  and  in  a  waking  dream,  touched,  no  doubt, 
into  greater  vividness  by  hovering  hands  of  Sleep,  she  found 
temporary  rest.  Dreams  partake  of  reality  in  tliat  that  which 
is  and  that  which  might  be,  are  combined  in  their  send)lance 
of  life.  Eliza  saw  the  home  she  had  so  long  hated  and  lived 
its  life  once  more,  but  with  this  difference,  that  she,  her 
new  present  self,  Avas  there,  and  into  the  old  life  she  brought 
perforce  what  knowledge  of  the  world's  refinements  she  had 
gained  in  her  year  of  freedom.  The  knowledge  seemed  to 
her  much  more  important  than  it  was,  but  such  as  it  was, 
she  saw  it  utilised  in  the  log  house,  and  the  old  way  of  life 
thereby  changed,  but  changed  the  more  because  she,  she  the 
child  Sissy,  reigned  there  now  as  a  queen.  It  was  this  idea 
of  reigning,  of  power,  that  surely  now  made  this  dream — 
wild,  impossible  as  she  still  felt  it  to  be — pleasant.  But, 
as  she  pondered,  arranging  small  details  as  a  stimulated 
imagination  is  wont  to  do,  she  became  gradually  conscious 
that  if  love  were  to  reign  long,  the  queen  of  love  would  be 
not  only  queen  but  slave,  and,  as  by  the  inevitable  action  of 
a  true  balance,  the  slave  of  love  would  be  a  ruler  too.  This 
new  conception,  as  it  at  first  emerged,  was  not  disagreeable. 
Her  imagination  worked  on,  mapping  out  days  and  months 


. 


CHAP.  XVI]  WHAT  NFXESSfTV  K'NOIVS 


405 


|was, 
life 
the 
idea 
|m — 
JBut, 
lated 
jious 
Id  be 
m  of 
iThis 
ible. 
Intlis 


to  her  fasoinatcd  hoart.  Tlicn  Sleep  came  nearer,  and 
turned  the  self-ordered  dream  into  that  wliicdi  the  dreamer 
mistook  for  reality.  In  tliat  far-off  home  she  saw  all  the 
bareness  and  roughness  of  tli  lonely  life  which,  do  what 
she  would,  she  could  not  greatly  alter;  and  there  again 
liates  kissed  her;  she  felt  his  touch  in  all  its  reality,  and  in 
her  dream  slie  measured  the  barrenness  of  the  place  against 
the  knowledge  that  her  love  was  his  life. 

The  s(ml  that  lay  dreaming  in  this  way  was  the  soul  of  a 
heavy-lind)ed,  ungracious  woman.  She  lay  now  on  the  floor 
in  ungainly  attitude,  and  all  the  things  that  were  about  her 
in  the  darkness  were  of  that  commonest  type  with  which 
ignorance  with  limited  resource  has  essayed  to  imitate  some 
false  ideal  of  finery,  and  produced  such  articles  as  furniture 
daubed  with  painted  flowers,  jute  carpets,  and  gowns  be- 
flounced  and  gaudy.  Yet  this  soul,  sliut  oft'  from  the  world 
now  by  the  curtain  of  sleep,  was  spoken  to  by  an  angel  who 
blended  his  own  being  into  recollections  of  the  day,  and 
treated  with  her  concerning  the  life  that  is  worthy  and  the 
life  that  is  vain. 

Eliza  awoke  with  a  start.  She  raised  herself  up  stiff  and 
chilly.  She  looked  back  upon  her  dream,  at  flrst  with  con- 
fusion and  then  with  contempt.  She  lit  her  lamp  and  the 
present  was  around  her  again. 

"No,  I  will  not  go,"  she  said  to  herself.  The  words  had 
been  conned  in  lier  flt  of  rudeness  to  Sophia  llexford  that 
day,  but  now  they  had  a  wider  meaning. 

All  sweet  influences  sent  out  from  Heaven  to  plead  with 
human  hearts  withdrew  for  the  time,  for — such  an  awful 
thing  is  life — we  have  power  to  repulse  God. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


Robert  Trenholme  was  still  obliged  to  rest  his  sprained 
ankle,  and  was  not  yet  going  out,  but  an  opportunity  was 
afforded  him  of  meeting  his  friendly  neighbours,  at  least 


M 


t 


! 


4o6 


IV/^AT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[UOOK  III 


the  feminine  portion  of  them,  in  company,  sooner  than  he 
anticipated. 

The  (hiy  before  the  college  reassembled  it  ha])pened  that 
the  sewing-eirule  connected  with  tlie  church  met  at  Mrs. 
liexford's  house.  Tlie  W(nither  was  unusually  warm  for  the 
season;  the  workers  still  preferred  to  sit  out  of  doors,  and 
the  grass  under  the  tree  at  tlie  front  of  the  house  was  their 
place  of  meeting.  About  a  dozen  were  there,  among  wliom 
Mrs.  and  Miss  JJennett  were  consjjicuous,  wlien  Mrs.  I'nown 
and  her  daughter  drove  up,  a  little  belated,  but  full  of  an 
interesting  project. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Ilexford,"  they  cried,  "we  have  just  thought 
of  such  a  charming  plan !  Why  not  send  our  carriage  on  to 
the  college,  and  beg  J*rincii)al  Trenholme  to  drive  back  here 
and  sit  an  hour  or  two  with  us?  It's  so  near  that,  now  he 
is  so  much  better,  the  motion  cannot  hurt  him;  this  charm- 
ing air  and  tlie  change  cannot  fail  to  do  him  good,  so  con- 
fined as  he  has  been,  and  we  shall  all  work  with  the  more 
zeal  in  his  presence." 

The  plan  was  approved  by  all.  If  there  were  others  there 
who,  with  Sophia  Ilexford,  doubted  whether  greater  zeal 
with  the  needle  would  be  the  result  of  this  addition  to  their 
party,  they  made  no  objections.  They  could  not  but  feel 
that  it  would  be  a  good  thing  for  the  invalid's  solitude  to 
be  thus  broken  in  upon,  for,  for  some  reason  or  other,  Tren- 
holme had  been  in  solitude  lately;  he  had  neither  invited 
visitors  nor  embraced  such  opportunity  as  he  had  of  driving 
out. 

Trenholme  answered  this  invitation  in  person.  The 
motherly  members  of  the  party  attended  him  at  the  car- 
riage door  when  he  drove  up,  and,  with  almost  affectionate 
kindness,  conducted  his  limping  steps  to  a  reclining  chair 
that  had  been  provided.  His  crutch,  and  a  certain  pensive 
pallor  on  his  countenance,  certainly  added  to  his  attrac- 
tions. Even  Sophia  Ilexford  was  almost  humble  in  the 
attentions  she  offered  him,  and  the  other  maidens  were 
demonstrative.     In  spite  of  such  protestations  as  he  made. 


CHAP.  XVl] 


WHAT  NECKSSJTV  KJVOIVS 


407 


ere 
zeal 
heir 

feel 

e  to 

ren- 
ted 
Lvmg 

The 
car- 
onate 
cliair 
iisive 
ttrac- 

L     tllG 

were 
nade. 


\w.  was  entlironed,  as  it  were,  in  tlie  most  conifortahlo 
manner.  Fur  sleigh  roh(!S  were  spread  on  the  grass  lor  a 
earpet,  and  the  best  of  them  was  used  as  a  rug  about  his 
feet. 

The  majority  of  women  are  best  pleased  by  the  comjiany 
of  a  man  whom  otlu  r  men  admire.  Trenholme  had  never 
descended  to  being,  even  in  leisure  hdurs,  a  mere  "  ladies' 
man";  if  he  had  been  tliat  he  would  not  hav(!  liad  his 
])r('sent  plaee  in  this  company.  Yet  he  was  not  borcMl  l)y 
finding  himself  the  only  man  among  so  many  women;  he 
knew  most  of  these  women,  their  faults  and  their  worthi- 
ness, far  too  well  not  to  be  at  ease  with  them,  even  if  he 
had  troubled  to  give  a  second  thought  to  their  largess  of 
kindliness.  He  had  responded  to  their  unexpected  call  to 
meet  them  together  because  he  had  something  to  say  to 
them,  and  he  said  it  that  afternoon  in  his  own  time  and  in 
his  own  way.  Had  he  needed  to  borrow  dignity  to  sustain 
their  jubilant  welcome,  his  purpose  would  have  lent  it  to 
him,  and,  for  the  rest,  all  his  lieart  was  overshadowed  and 
filled  with  the  consciousness  of  Sophia  Rexford's  presence. 
He  had  not  seen  her  since  the  night  in  which  they  had 
walked  through  midnight  hours  together.  He  could  not 
touch  her  hand  without  feeling  his  own  tremble.  He  did 
not  look  at  her  again. 

It  was  a  pretty  scene.  The  women,  on  their  carpet  of 
faded  ox  and  buffalo  skins,  were  grouped  on  chairs  and 
cushions.  The  foliage  of  the  maple  tree  above  them  was 
turning  pink  and  crimson,  shedding  a  glow  as  of  red  cur- 
tains, and  some  of  its  leaves  were  already  scattered  upon 
the  ragged  grass  or  on  the  shelving  verandah  roof  of  the 
wooden  farmhouse.  The  words  that  fell  in  small  talk  from 
the  women  were  not  unlike  the  colour  of  these  fading 
leaves — useless,  but  lending  softness  to  the  hour. 

"And  your  sewing-party  will  quite  bear  the  palm  for 
this  season,  Mrs.  Kexford,  quite  the  palm;  for  no  other 
has  been  honoured  by  the  presence  of  the  Principal." 

It  was  Mrs.  Bennett  who  spoke;  her  upright  carriage, 


4o8 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  III 


thin  nose,  and  clear  even  voice,  carried  always  the  sugges- 
tion of  mild  but  obstinate  self-importance. 

The  birdlike  little  hostess,  confused  by  the  misapplied 
praise,  remonstrated.  " 'Tis  Mrs.  Brown,"  cried  she,  "who 
bears  the  palm." 

Here  the  younger  ladies,  to  whom  nature  had  kindly 
given  the  saving  sen^e  of  humour,  laughed  a  little — not  too 
obviously — in  concert  with  the  man  thus  lauded. 

Then  they  all  fell  to  talking  upon  the  latest  news  that 
Chellaston  could  afford,  which  was,  that  a  gentleman,  a 
minister  from  the  south  of  Maine,  had  arrived,  and  by 
various  explanations  had  identified  the  old  preacher  Avho 
had  been  called  Cameron  as  his  father.  It  seemed  that  the 
old  man  had  long  ago  partially  lost  his  wits — senses  and 
brain  having  been  impaired  through  an  accident — but  this 
son  had  always  succeeded  in  keeping  him  in  a  quiet  neigh- 
bourhood where  his  condition  was  understood,  until,  in  the 
beginning  of  the  previous  winter,  the  poor  wanderer  had 
escaped  the  vigilance  of  his  friends.  It  was  partly  on 
account  of  the  false  name  which  had  been  given  him  that 
they  had  failed  to  trace  him  until  the  circumstances  of  his 
tragic  death  were  advertised. 

"The  son  is  culpable.  Mad  people  shculd  be  shut  up 
where  tUey  can  do  no  mischief."  About  half  the  ladies 
present  joined  in  this  comment. 

Mrs.  Kexfird  looked  round  uneasily  to  see  that  her 
young  daughter  Winifred  had  not  joined  the  party.  In- 
discreet usually,  she  was  wonderfully  tender  in  these  days 
of  Winifred. 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  if  he  had  been  my  father  I  would 
have  shut  him  up."     Trenholme  spoke  and  sighed. 

"If  he  had  been  my  father,"  Sophia  cried  vehemently, 
"  I  would  have  gone  with  him  from  village  to  village  and 
door  to  door;  I  Avould  rather  have  begged  my  bread  than 
kept  him  from  preaching.  I  would  have  told  the  people 
he  was  a  little  mad,  but  not  much,  and  saner  than  any  of 
them." 


CHAP.  XVI]  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


409 


There  was  enougli  sympathy  with  Sopliia's  vivacity  among 
her  friends  to  make  it  easy  to  express  lierself  naturally. 

"What  is  one  false  opinion  more  or  less?"  she  cried. 
"Do  any  of  us  imagine  that  oilv  opinions  are  just  those 
held  in  heaven?  This  old  man  had  all  his  treasure  in 
heaven,  and  that  is,  after  all,  the  best  security  that  heart 
or  mind  will  not  go  far  astray." 

The  youngest  Miss  Brown  was  sitting  on  the  fur  rugs, 
not  very  far  from  Trenholme.  She  looked  up  at  him, 
pretty  herself  in  the  prettiness  of  genuine  admiration. 

"  It  is  such  a  pity  that  Miss  Rexford  is  sitting  just  out 
of  your  sight.  You  would  be  lenient  to  the  heresy  if  you 
could  see  how  becoming  it  is  to  the  heretic." 

But  Trenholme  was  not  seen  to  look  round.  He  was 
found  to  be  saying  that  the  son  of  the  late  preacher  evi- 
dently held  his  father  in  reverence ;  it  seemed  that  the  old 
man  had  in  his  youth  been  a  disciple  and  preacher  under 
Miller,  the  founder  of  the  Adventist  sect;  it  was  natural 
that,  as  his  faculties  failed,  his  mind  should  revert  to  the 
excitements  of  the  former  time. 

Mrs.  Bennett  had  already  launched  forth  an  answer  to 
Sophia's  enthusiasm.  She  continued,  in  spite  of  Tren- 
holme's  intervening  remarks.  "  When  I  was  a  girl  papa 
always  warned  us  against  talking  on  serious  subjects.  He 
thought  we  could  not  understand  them." 

"I  think  it  was  good  advice,"  said  Sophia  with  hardi- 
hood. 

"  Oh  yes,  naturally — papa  being  a  dean — " 

Trenholme  encouraged  the  conversation  about  the  dean. 
It  occurred  to  him  to  ask  if  there  was  a  portrait  extant  of 
that  worthy.  "We  are  such  repetitions  of  our  ancestors," 
said  he,  "that  I  think  it  is  a  pity  when  family  portraits 
are  lacking." 

Mrs.  Bennett  regretted  that  her  father's  modesty,  the 
fortunes  of  the  family,  etc. ;  but  slie  said  there  was  a  very 
good  portrait  of  her  uncle,  the  admiral,  in  his  sc.  j  house 
in  London. 


410 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  III 


"  I  do  not  feel  that  I  represent  my  ancestors  in  the  least," 
said  Miss  Bennett,  "and  I  sliould  be  very  sorry  if  I  did." 

She  certainly  did  not  look  very  like  her  mother,  as  she 
sat  with  affectio.  ate  nearness  to  Sophia  Rexford,  accom- 
plishing more  work  in  an  hour  with  her  toil-reddened  hands 
than  her  mother  was  likely  to  do  in  two. 

"  Ah,  ladies'  feelings !  "  Trenholme  rallied  her  openly. 
"But  whatever  you  may  feel,  you  assuredly  do  represent 
them,  and  owe  to  them  all  you  are." 

"Very  true,"  said  the  mother  approvingly.  "Papa  had 
black  hair.  Principal  Trenholme ;  and  although  my  daugh- 
ter's hair  is  brown,  I  often  notice  in  it  just  that  gloss  and 
curl  that  was  so  beautiful  in  his." 

"Yes,  like  and  unlike  are  oddly  blended.  My  father 
was  a  butcher  by  trade,  and  although  my  work  in  life  has 
been  widely  different  from  his,  I  often  notice  in  myself 
something  of  just  those  qualities  which  enabled  him  to 
succeed  so  markedly,  and  I  know  that  they  are  my  chief 
reliance.  My  brother,  who  has  determined  to  follow  my 
father's  trade,  is  not  so  like  him  in  many  ways  as  I  am." 

If  he  had  said  that  his  father  had  had  red  hair,  he  would 
not  have  said  it  with  less  emphasis.  No  one  present 
would  have  doubted  his  truthfulness  on  the  one  point,  nor 
did  they  now  doubt  it  on  this  other;  but  no  one  mastered 
the  sense  and  force  of  what  he  had  said  until  minutes,  more 
or  less  in  each  case,  had  flown  past,  and  in  the  meantime 
he  had  talked  on,  and  his  talk  had  drifted  to  other  points 
in  the  subject  of  heredity.  Sophia  answered  him;  the 
discussion  became  general. 

Blue  and  Red  came  offering  cups  of  tea. 

"Aren't  they  prstty?"  said  the  youngest  Miss  Brown, 
again  lifting  her  eyes  to  Trenholme  for  sympathy  in  her 
admiration. 

"Sh — sh — ,"  said  the  elder  ladies,  as  if  it  were  possible 
that  Blue  and  Red  could  be  kept  in  ignorance  of  their  own 
charms. 

A  man  nervously  tired  can  feel  acute  disappointment  at 


I 


r 
in 


CHAP.  XVI]  IV//AT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


411 


the  smallest,  silliest  thing.  Trenholme  had  expected  that 
Sophia  would  pour  out  his  tea;  he  thought  it  would  have 
refreshed  him  then  to  the  very  soul,  even  if  she  had  given 
it  indifferently.  The  cup  he  took  seemed  like  some  bitter 
draught  he  was  swallowing  for  politeness'  sake.  When  it, 
and  all  the  necessary  talk  concerning  it,  were  finished, 
together  with  other  matters  belonging  to  the  hour,  he  got 
himself  out  of  his  big  chair,  and  Mrs.  Brown's  horses,  that 
had  been  switching  their  tails  in  the  lane,  drove  him 
home. 

The  carriage  gone,  Mrs.  Brown's  curiosity  was  at  hand 
directly.  She  and  Mrs.  Kexford  were  standing  apart  where 
with  motherly  kindness  they  had  been  bidding  him  good- 
bye. 

"  I  suppose,  Mrs.  Rexford,  you  know — you  have  always 
known — this  fact  concerning  Principal  Trenholme's  origin. 
T  mean  what  he  alluded  to  just  now."  INIrs.  Brown  spoke, 
not  observing  Mrs.  Eexford  but  the  group  in  which  her 
daughters  were  prominent  figures. 

Nothing  ever  impressed  Mrs.  Rexford's  imagination 
vividly  that  did  not  concern  her  own  family. 

"I  do  not  think  it  has  been  named  to  me,"  said  she,  "but 
no  doubt  my  husband  and  Sophia " 

"You  think  they  have  known  it?"  It  was  of  impor- 
tance to  Mrs.  Brown  to  know  whether  Captain  Rexford  and 
Sophia  had  known  or  not;  for  if  they  knew  and  made  no 

diiference "  If  Miss  Rexford  has  not  objected.     She  is 

surely  a  judge  in  such  matters !  " 

"Sophia!  Yes,  to  be  sure,  Sophia  is  very  highly  con- 
nected on  her  mother's  side.  I  often  say  to  my  husband 
that  I  am  a  mere  nobody  compared  with  his  first  wife.  But 
Sophia  is  not  proud.  Sophia  would  be  kind  to  the  lowest, 
Mrs.  Brown."  (This  praise  was  used  witli  vaguest  appli- 
cation.) "She  has  such  a  good  heart!  Really,  what  she 
has  done  for  me  and  my  children " 

A  light  broke  in  upon  Mrs.  Brown's  mind.  She  heard 
nothing  concerning  Mrs.  Rexford  and  her  children.     She 


412 


IVHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  in 


knew  now,  or  felt  sure  she  knew,  why  Miss  Eexford  had 
always  seemed  a  little  stiff  when  Trenholme  was  praised. 
Her  attitude  towards  him,  it  appeared,  had  always  been 
that  of  mere  "kindness."  Now,  up  to  this  moment,  Mrs. 
Brown,  although  not  a  designing  woman,  had  entertained 
comfortable  notherly  hopes  that  Trenholme  might  ulti- 
mately espouse  one  of  her  daughters,  and  it  had  certainly 
advanced  him  somewhat  in  her  favour  that  his  early  ac- 
quaintance with  Miss  Rexford  was  an  undisputed  fact; 
but  in  the  light  of  what  Mrs.  Eexford  had  just  said  of  her 
daughter's  good-heartedness  all  assumed  a  different  aspect. 
Mrs.  Brown  was  in  no  way  "highly  connected,"  belonging 
merely  to  the  prosperous  middle  class,  but,  with  tlie  true 
colonial  spirit  that  recognises  only  distance  below,  none 
above,  she  began  to  consider  whether,  in  the  future,  her 
role  should  not  be  that  of  mere  kindness  also.  To  do  her 
justice,  she  did  not  decide  the  question  just  then. 

The  voice  of  her  youngest  daughter  was  heard  laugh- 
ing rather  immoderately.  "Indeed,  Mrs.  Bennett,"  she 
laughed,  "we  all  heard  him  say  it,  and,  unlike  you,  we 
believed  our  ears.  We'll  dmw  up  a  statement  to  that 
eifect  and  sign  our  names,  if  that  is  necessary  to  assure 
you." 

Her  mother,  approaching,  detected,  as  no  one  else  did,  a 
strain  of  hysterical  excitement  in  her  laughter,  and  bid  her 
rise  to  come  home,  but  she  did  not  heed  the  summons. 

"  Yes,  he  diH  say  it.  That  handsome  brother  of  his,  to 
whom  I  lost  my  heart  two  weeks  ago,  does  really — well,  to 
put  it  plainly,  knock  animals  on  the  liead,  you  know,  and 
sell  them  in  chops,  and — what  do  you  call  it,  mamma? — 
the  sirloin  and  brisket.  'How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Trenholme? 
I  want  some  meat  for  dinner — chops,  1  think.'  Oh,  how  I 
shoald  love  to  go  and  buy  chops !  " 

Sophia  was  kneeling  over  a  pile  of  work,  folding  it. 
She  asked  the  boisterous  girl  for  the  cloth  she  had  been 
sewing,  and  her  voice  was  hard  and  impatient,  as  if  she 
wished  the  talk  at  an  end. 


1 


CHAP.  XVI]  IV//AT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


413 


w 


e? 
I 

it. 
len 
she 


Mrs.  Bennett  arose  and  wrapped  her  cape  about  her  thin 
shouklers,  not  without  some  air  of  majesty.  There  was  a 
bitter  angry  expression  upon  her  delicate  face. 

"  All  that  I  wish  to  say  in  this  matter  ip,  that  /  never 
knew  this  before ;  others  may  have  been  in  possession  of 
these  facts,  but  /was  not." 

"  If  you  had  been,  of  course  you  would  have  honoured 
him  the  more  for  triumphing  over  difficulties,"  answered 
the  elder  Miss  Brown,  with  smooth  sarcasm. 

"Yes,  certainly  that,  of  course;  but  I  should  have  thought 
him  very  unsuitably  placed  as  an  instructor  of  youth 
and " 

The  right  adjustment  of  the  cape  seemed  to  interrupt 
the  speech,  but  others  mentally  supplied  the  ending  with 
reference  to  Miss  Bennett. 

"  Miss  Rexford,  being  one  of  Principal  Trenholme's  old- 
est friends,  is  not  taken  by  surprise."  Some  one  said  this; 
Sophia  hardly  kncAV  who  it  was.  She  knelt  upright  by  the 
packing  basket  and  threw  back  her  head. 

"I  met  him  often  at  my  own  uncle's  house.  My  uncle 
knew  him  thoronglily,  and  liked  him  well." 

Most  of  the  women  there  were  sensibly  commenting  on 
the  amount  of  work  done,  and  allotting  shares  for  the 
ensuing  week.  It  would  take  a  week  at  least  to  rouse 
them  to  the  state  of  interest  at  which  others  had  already 
arrived. 

Her  cape  adjusted,  Mrs.  Bennett  found  something  else  to 
say.  "  Of  course,  personally,  it  makes  no  difference  to  me, 
for  I  have  always  felt  there  was  something  about  Principal 

Trenholme — that  is,  that  he  was   not It   is   a  little 

hard  to  express;  one  feels,  rather  than  speaks,  these 
things." 

It  was  a  lie,  but  what  was  remarkable  about  it  was  that 
its  author  did  not  know  it  for  one.  In  the  last  half-hour 
she  had  convinced  herself  that  she  had  always  suffered  in 
Trenholme's  presence  from  his  lack  of  refinement,  and 
there  was  little  hope  that  an  imagination  that  could  make 


* 


414 


WHAT  NECESSrrV  KNOWS 


[hook  III 


such  strides  would  not  soon  discover  in  him  positive  coarse- 
ness. As  the  party  dispersed  she  was  able  to  speak  aside  to 
Sophia. 

"I  see  how  you  look  upon  it,"  she  said.  "There  is  no 
difference  between  one  trade  and  another,  or  between  a  man 
who  deals  in  cargoes  of  cattle  and  one  who  sells  meat  in  a 
shop."  She  was  weakly  excited;  her  voice  trembled. 
"Looking  down  from  a  higher  class,  we  must  see  that, 
although  all  trades  are  in  a  sense  praiseworthy,  one  is  as 
bad  as  another." 

"They  seem  to  me  very  much  on  a  level,"  said  Sophia. 
There  was  still  a  hard  ring  in  her  voice.  She  looked 
straight  before  her. 

"Of  course  in  this  country" — Mrs.  Bennett  murmured 
so:viething  half-audible  about  the  Browns.  "  One  cannot 
afford  to  be  too  particular  whom  one  meets,  but  I  certainly 
should  have  thought  that  in  our  pulpits — in  our  schools " 

She  did  not  finish.  Her  tliin  mouth  was  settling  into 
curves  that  bespoke  that  relentless  cruelty  which  in  the 
minds  of  certain  people,  is  synonymous  with  justice. 

It  was  a  rickety,  weather-stained  chaise  in  which  Mrs. 
Bennett  and  her  daughter  were  to  drive  home.  As  Miss 
Bennett  untied  the  horse  herself,  there  was  a  bright  red 
spot  on  either  of  her  cheeks.  She  had  made  no  remark  on 
the  subject  on  which  her  mother  was  talking,  nor  did  she 
speak  now.  She  was  in  love  with  Trenholme,  that  is,  as 
much  in  love  as  a  practical  woman  can  be  with  a  man  from 
whom  she  has  little  hope  of  a  return.  She  was  not  as 
pretty  as  many  girls  are,  nor  had  she  the  advantages  of  dress 
and  leisure  by  which  to  make  herself  attractive.  She  had 
hoped  little,  but  in  an  honest,  humble-minded,  quiet  way 
she  had  preferred  this  man  to  an}'-  other.  Now,  although 
she  was  as  different  from  her  mother  as  nature  could  make 
her,  precepts  with  which  her  mind  had  been  plied  from 
infancy  had  formed  her  thought.  She  was  incapable  of  self- 
deception,  she  knew  that  he  had  been  her  ideal  man;  but 
she  was  also  incapable  of  seeing  him  in  the  same  light  now 
as  heretofore. 


CHAP.  XVII]         IVIIAT  NECESSITY  KNOirS 


415 


ISS 

lied 
on 

Islie 
as 
•om 
as 
•ess 
tiad 

^vay 
igh 
lake 
L'om 
lelf- 
biit 
liow 


Miss  Bennett  held  the  reins  tight  and  gave  her  horse 
smart  strokes  of  the  whip.  The  spiritless  animal  took  such 
driving  passively,  as  it  jogged  down  the  quiet  road  by  the 
enclosure  of  the  Xew  College. 

Unconscious  that  her  words  were  inconsistent  with  what 
she  had  so  lately  said,  Mrs.  Bennett  complained  again. 
"My  nerves  have  received  quite  a  shock;  I  am  all  in  a 
tremble."  It  was  true;  she  was  even  wiping  away  genuine 
tears.  "  Oh,  my  dear,  it's  a  terribly  low  occupation.  Oh, 
my  dear,  the  things  I  have  heard  they  do — the  atrocities 
they  commit! " 

"  I  daresay  what  you  heard  was  true,"  retorted  Miss  Ben- 
nett, "but  it  does  not  follow  that  they  are  all  alike." 
Without  perceiving  clearly  the  extent  of  the  fallacy,  she 
felt  called  upon  to  oppose  tlie  generalisations  of  a  super- 
ficial mind. 

So  they  passed  out  of  sight  of  Trenholme's  house.  In- 
side he  sat  at  his  desk,  plunged  again  in  the  work  of  writing 
business  letters.  We  seldom  realise  in  what  way  we  give 
out  the  force  that  is  within  us,  or  in  what  proportion  it  flows 
into  this  act  or  that.  Trenliolme  was  under  the  impression 
that  what  he  had  done  that  afternoon  had  been  done  with- 
out effort.  The  effort,  as  he  realised  it,  had  come  days  and 
weeks  before.  Yet,  as  he  worked  through  the  hours  that 
were  left  of  that  day's  light,  he  felt  a  weariness  of  body 
and  mind  that  was  almost  equivalent  to  a  desire  for  death. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 


Sophia  Rexford  stood  and  watched  the  last  of  the  after- 
noon's company  as,  some  driving  and  some  on  foot,  they 
passed  in  different  directions  along  the  level  road.  It  was 
a  very  peaceful  scene.  The  neighbourhood  lay  sunning 
itself  in  the  last  warmth  of  the  summer,  and  the  neighbours, 
to  all  appearance,  were  moving  homeward  in  utmost  tran- 


41 6  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  hi 

quillity.  Sopliia  was  not  at  peace;  slie  was  holding  stern 
rule  over  her  mind,  saying,  "Be  at  peace;  wlio  hath  dis- 
turbed thee?"  This  rule  lasted  not  many  minutes;  then 
suddenly  mutiny.  "Good  Heavens!"  she  cried  within 
herself,  "  how  indiscreet  I  have  been,  making  friends  with 
these  men.  Shall  I  never  learn  wisdom — I  who  have  sought 
to  direct  others?"  The  recollections  that  came  caused  her, 
in  tlie  sting  of  mortified  pride,  to  strike  her  liand  with 
painful  force  agains^  a  chair  near  her.  The  bruise  recalled 
her  to  calm.  The  chair  she  had  struck  was  that  large  one 
in  wliich  Robert  Trenholme  had  reclined.  It  aided  her  to 
ponder  upon  the  man  who  had  so  lately  been  seen  on  its 
cushions,  and,  in  truth,  her  pondering  bewildered  her.  Why 
had  he  not  said  as  much  to  her  years  before,  and  why  had 
he  now  said  wliat  he  did,  as  he  did?  She  thought  she  had 
known  this  man,  had  fathomed  him  as  to  faults  and  virtues, 
though  at  some  times  she  rated  their  combination  more 
reverently  than  at  others.  Truth  to  tell,  she  had  known 
him  well ;  her  judgment,  impelled  by  the  suggestion  of  his 
possible  love,  had  scanned  him  patiently.  Yet  now  she 
owned  herself  at  fault,  unable  to  construe  the  manner  of 
this  action  or  assign  a  particular  motive  with  which  it  was 
in  harmony.  It  is  by  manner  that  the  individual  is 
revealed  (for  many  men  may  do  the  same  deed),  and  a  friend 
who  perforce  must  know  a  friend  only  by  faith  and  the 
guessing  of  the  unseen  by  the  seen,  fastens  instinctively 
upon  signs  too  slight  to  be  written  in  the  minutest  history. 
At  this  moment,  as  Sophia  stood  among  the  vacant  seats, 
the  scene  of  the  conversation  which  had  just  taken  place, 
she  felt  that  her  insight  into  Robert  Trenholme  failed  her. 
She  recalled  a  cej'tain  peace  and  contentment  that,  in  spite  of 
fatigue,  was  written  on  his  face.  She  set  it  by  what  he  had 
said,  and  gained  from  it  an  unreasoning  belief  that  he  was  a 
nobler  man  thftu  she  had  lately  supposed  him  to  be;  in  the 
same  breath  lier  heart  blamed  him  bitterly  for  not  having 
told  her  this  before,  and  for  telling  it  now  as  if,  forsooth,  it 
was  a  matter  of  no  importance,     "How  dare  he?"     Again 


CHAP,  xvii]        WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


417 


of 


IS 


n-y. 

lats, 

lace, 

her. 
of 

Iliad 

las  a 

the 

ring 

it 

leain 


herself  within  herself  was  rampant,  talking  wildly.  "  How 
dare  ho?"  asked  Anger.  Then  Scorn  demanded  peace 
again,  for,  "It  is  not  of  importance  to  me,"  said  Scorn. 

Blue  and  Red  and  Winifred  and  the  little  boys  came  out 
to  carry  in  the  chairs  and  rugs.  A  cool  breeze  came  with 
the  reddening  of  the  sunlight,  and  stirred  the  maple  tree 
into  its  evening  whispering. 

As  Sophia  worked  with  the  children  the  turmoil  of  her 
thought  went  on.  Something  constantly  stung  her  pride 
like  the  lash  of  a  whip ;  she  turned  and  shifted  her  mind  to 
avoid  it,  and  could  not. 

She  had  deliberately  deceived  her  friends  when  she  had 
asserted  that  her  uncle  had  known  all  Trenholme's  affairs. 
She  had  not  the  slightest  doubt  now,  looking  back,  that  he 
had  known — a  thousand  small  things  testified  to  it ;  but  he 
had  not  made  a  confidante  of  her,  his  niece,  and  she  knew 
that  that  would  be  the  inference  drawn  from  her  assertion. 
She  knew,  too,  that  the  reason  her  uncle,  who  had  died  soon 
after,  had  not  told  her  was  that  he  never  dreamed  that  then 
or  afterwards  she  would  come  into  intimate  relationship 
with  his  proteg^.  To  give  the  impression  that  he,  and  she 
also,  knowing  Trenholme's  origin,  had  overlooked  it,  was 
totally  false.  Yet  she  did  not  regret  this  falsehood.  Who 
with  a  spark  of  chivalry  would  not  have  dealt  as  hard  a 
blow  as  strength  might  permit  in  return  for  so  mean  an. 
attack  on  the  absent  man?  But  none  the  less  did  her  heart 
upbraid  the  man  she  had  defended. 

Sophia  stood,  as  in  a  place  where  two  seas  met,  between 
her  indignation  against  the  spirit  Mrs.  Bennett  had  displayed 
(and  which  she  knew  was  lying  latent  ready  to  be  fanned 
into  flame  in  the  hearts  of  only  too  many  of  Trenholme's 
so-called  friends)  and  her  indignation  against  Trenholme 
and  his  history.  But  it  was  neither  the  one  current  of  emo- 
tion nor  the  other  that  caused  that  dagger-like  pain  that 
stabbed  her  pride  to  the  quick.  It  was  not  Robert  Tren- 
holme's concerns  that  touched  her  self-love. 

She  had  gained  her  own  room  to  be  alone.     "  Heaven  help 


'»■«*■ 


4i8  1VHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  hi 

me,"  she  cried  (lier  ejaculation  had  perliaps  no  meaning 
except  that  she  had  need  of  expletive),  ''  what  a  fool  I  have 
been ! " 

She  rehearsed  each  meeting  she  had  had  with  Alec  Tren- 
holme.  How  she  had  dallied  with  him  in  fields  and  on  the 
road,  seeing  now  clearly,  as  never  before,  how  she  had  smiled 
upon  him,  how  she  had  bewitched  him.  What  mischance 
had  led  her  on?  She  sprang  up  again  from  the  seat  into 
which  she  had  sunk.  "  Mercy !  "  she  cried  in  an  agony  of 
shame,  "was  ever  woman  so  foolish  as  I?  I  have  treated 
him  as  a  friend,  and  he  is !  " 

Then  for  some  reason,  she  ceased  to  think  of  herself  and 
thought  of  him.  She  considered:  had  he  made  no  effort? 
had  he  felt  no  pain?  She  saw  how  he  had  waveringly  tried 
to  avoid  her  at  first,  and  how,  at  last,  he  had  tried  to  warn 
her.  She  thought  upon  the  epithet  he  had  applied  to  him- 
self when  trying  to  explain  himself  to  her :  she  lifted  her 
head  again,  and,  in  a  glow  of  generous  thought,  she  felt  that 
this  was  a  friend  of  whom  no  one  need  be  ashamed. 

The  bell  for  the  evening  meal  rang.  There  are  hours  in 
which  we  transcend  ourselves,  but  a  little  thing  brings  lis 
back  to  the  level  on  which  we  live.  As  Sophia  hastily 
brushed  her  dark  hair,  mortified  pride  stabbed  her  again, 
and  scorn  again  came  to  the  rescue.  "  What  does  it  mat- 
ter? It  would  have  been  better,  truly,  if  I  had  had  less  to 
do  with  him,  but  what  has  passed  is  of  no  importance  to 
anyone,  least  of  all  to  me !  " 

As  she  had  begun  at  first  to  rule  her  heart,  so  did  she 
rule  it  all  that  evening.  But  when  she  was  again  within 
her  room  alone  she  lingered,  looking  out  of  her  small  case- 
ment at  the  fields  where  she  had  met  Alec  Trenholme,  at 
the  road  where  she  walked  with  him:  all  was  white  and 
cold  now  in  the  moonlight.  And  soon  she  leaned  her  head 
against  the  pane  and  wept. 

Those  are  often  the  bitterest  tears  for  which  we  can  fur- 
nish no  definite  cause;  when  courage  fails,  we  see  earth 
only  through  our  tears,  and  all  form  is  out  of  proportion,  all 


CHAP.  XVIII]       WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


419 


colour  crude,  all  music  discord,  and  every  heart  a  well  of 
evil,  and  we  bewail,  not  our  own  woes  only,  but  the  woe  of 
the  world.  So  this  proud  woman  wept,  and  prayed  God 
wildly  to  save  the  world  out  of  its  evil  into  His  good — and 
did  not,  could  not,  tell  herself  what  was  the  exciting  cause 
of  her  tears. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


m 
us 

in, 

iiat- 
to 
to 

I  she 
thin 

ise- 
B,  at 
land 

lead 

Ifur- 

irth 

all 


Just  as  that  day  had  turned  rosy  at  the  close  and  then 
white  with  the  lesser  light  of  night,  so  did  the  summer  now 
fade  away  in  a  blaze  of  colour,  giving  one  last  display  of 
what  life  could  do  before  leaving  the  land  to  the  shroud  of 
the  winter's  snow.  Cool  bracing  winds,  of  which  there  had 
already  been  foretaste,  now  swept  the  land.  The  sun  seemed 
brighter  because  the  air  was  clearer.  The  college  boys  had 
returned,  and  were  heard  daily  shouting  at  their  games.  A 
few  days  made  all  this  outward  difference.  No  other  dif- 
ference had  as  yet  come  about. 

Now  that  harvest  was  over  and  Captain  Rexford  was  more 
at  leisure,  Sophia  felt  that  she  must  no  longer  postpone  the 
disagreeable  duty  of  speaking  to  him  seriously  about  his 
younger  daughters.  She  chose  an  hour  on  Sunday  when  lie 
and  she  were  walking  together  to  a  distant  point  on  the 
farm.  She  told  the  story  of  the  flirtation  of  poor  little 
Blue  and  Red  slightly,  for  she  felt  that  to  slight  it  as  much 
as  possible  was  to  put  it  in  its  true  proportion. 

"Yes,"  said  Captain  Rexford.  He  took  off  his  hat  and 
brushed  back  his  hair  nervously.  He  had  many  difficulties 
in  his  life.     "Yes,  and  then  there  is  Winifred." 

"  Girls  here  are  not  kept  always  under  the  eye  of  older 
people,  as  is  usually  considered  necessary  in  England ;  but 
then  they  learn  from  their  infancy  to  be  more  self-reliant. 
"We  have  taken  the  safeguards  of  governess  and  schoolroom 
suddenly  from  children  almost  grown-up,  and  set  them 
where  no  one  has  had  time  to  look  after  them.    They  would 


420 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  III 


need  to  have  been  miraculously  wise  if,  with  time  on  their 
hands,  they  had  not  spent  some  of  it  absurdly." 

"Yea,"  he  said  again  unhappily,  "what  must  we  do  about 
it,  my  dear?  Your  hands  are  alrewly  full."  He  always 
leaned  on  Sophia. 

"  I  fear  there  is  only  one  thing  to  do.  We  cannot  give 
them  society;  we  cannot  give  them  further  education;  they 
must  have  the  poor  woman's  protection — work — to  take  up 
their  time  and  thoughts.  We  have  saved  them  from  hard 
work  until  now,  and  it  has  not  been  true  kindness." 

He  did  not  answer.  He  belit^ved  what  she  said,  but  the 
truth  was  very  disagreeable  to  him.  When  he  spoke  again 
he  had  left  that  subject. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  this  affair  about  the  Trenholmes.  I  like 
Trenholme,  and,  of  course,  he  has  shown  himself  able  to 
rise.  The  younger  fellow  is  plain  and  bluff,  dike  enough  to 
what  he  is." 

"His  manners  are  perfectly  simple,  but  I — I  certainly 
never  imagined " 

"Oh,  certainly  not;  otherwise,  you  would  hardly  have 
received  him  as  you  did.  For  us  men,  of  course,  in  this 
country "     He  gave  a  dignified  wave  of  his  hand. 

"Are  you  sure  of  that,  papa — that  I  would  not  have 
received  him?"  It  was  exactly  what  she  had  been  saying 
to  herself  for  days ;  but,  now  that  another  said  it,  the  sen- 
timent involved  seemed  weak. 

"  I  am  aware  " — his  tone  was  resigned — "  that  your  opin- 
ions are  always  more  radical  than  I  can  approve.  The 
extreme  always  seems  to  have,  shall  I  say,  some  attraction 
for  you;  but  still,  my  daughter,  I  believe  you  are  not 
lacking  in  proper  pride." 

"  I  am  too  proud  to  think  that  for  a  good  many  days  I 
have  liked  a  man  who  was  not  fit  for  my  liking.  I  prefer 
to  believe  that  he  is  fit  until  I  can  have  more  conclusive 
proof  to  the  contrary." 

Captain  Kexford  walked  some  minutes  in  sterner  silence. 
He  had  long  ceased  to  regard  Sophia  as  under  his  authority. 


!>■ 


CHAP,  xviii]       IVHAT  N-ECESSITV  KNOWS 


431 


rsl 

}fer 
dve 

ice. 

|ity. 


"  Still  I  hope,  my  dear,  the  next  time  you  see  this  young 
man — rudeness,  of  course,  being  impossi))le  to  you,  and 
unnecessary — still  I  hope  you  will  allow  your  manner  to 
indicate  tliat  a  certain  distance  must  be  preserved." 

Her  own  sense  of  expediency  liad  been  urging  this  course 
upon  her,  but  she  had  not  been  able  to  bring  her  mind  to  it. 

"  I  should  show  myself  his  inferior  if  I  could  deliberately 
hurt  him,"  she  cried,  with  feeling.  The  trouble  of  a  long 
debate  she  had  been  having  with  herself,  her  uncertainty 
what  to  feel  or  think,  gave  more  emotion  to  her  voice  than 
she  supposed. 

"My  dear  daughter!"  cried  the  father,  with  evident 
agitation. 

Sophia  instantly  knew  on  whitt  suspicion  this  sudden 
sympathy  was  bestowed.  She  was  too  indignant  to  deny 
the  charge. 

"Well,  papa?" 

"  He  is,  no  doubt,  a  worthy  man ;  but " — he  got  no  help 
from  his  daughter;  she  was  walking  beside  him  with  imperi- 
ous mien — "in  short,  my  dear,  I  hope — indeed,  if  I  could 
think  that,  under  false  pretences,  he  could  have  won " 

"  He  is  the  last  man  to  seek  to  win  anything  under  a  false 
pretence."  The  coldness  of  her  manner  but  thinly  veiled 
her  vehemence ;  but  even  in  that  vehemence  she  perceived 
that  what  proofs  of  her  assertion  she  could  bring  would 
savour  of  too  particular  a  recollection.  She  let  it  stand 
unproved. 

"My  dear  child!"  he  cried,  in  affectionate  distress,  "I 

know  that  you  will  not  forget  that  rank,  birth "     He 

looked  at  her,  and,  seeing  that  she  appeared  intractable, 
exclaimed  further,  "  It's  no  new  thing  that  ladies  should, 
in  a  fit  of  madness,  demean  themselves — young  ladies  fre- 
quently marry  grooms ;  but,  believe  me,  my  dear  Sophia  " — 
earnestly — "  no  happiness  ever  came  of  such  a  thing — only 
misery,  and  vice,  and  squalor." 

But  here  she  laughed  with  irresistible  mirth.  "Young 
women  who  elope  with  grooms  are  not  likely  to  have  much 


422 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


[book  hi 


basis  of  happiness  in  themselves.  And  you  think  me 
capable  of  fancying  love  for  a  man  without,  education  or 
refinement,  a  man  with  whom  I  could  have  nothing  in  com- 
mon that  would  last  beyond  a  day !  What  have  1  ever  done, 
papa,  that  you  should  bring  such  an  accusation?" 

"I  certainly  beg  your  pardon,  my  daughter,  if  I  have 
maligned  you." 

"You  have  maligned  me;  there  is  no  'if  about  it." 

"My  dear,  I  certainly  apologise.  I  thought,  from  the 
way  in  which  you  spoke " 

"  You  thought  I  was  expressing  too  warm  a  regard  for 
Mr.  Alec  Trenholme;  but  that  has  nothing  whatever  to 
do  with  what  you  have  just  been  talking  about;  for,  if  he 
were  a  groom,  if  he  chose  to  sweep  the  streets,  he  would 
be  as  far  removed  from  the  kind  of  man  you  have  just  had 
in  your  mind  as  you  and  I  are;  and,  if  he  were  not,  I  could 
take  no  interest  in  him." 

The  gloom  on  Captain  Kexford's  brow,  which  had  been 
dispelled  by  her  laughter,  gathered  again. 

"  Separate  the  character  of  the  man  from  his  occupation," 
she  cried.  "  Grant  that  he  is  what  we  would  all  like  in  a 
friend.  Separate  him,  too,  from  any  idea  that  I  would 
marry  him,  for  I  was  not  thinking  of  such  a  thing.  Is 
there  not  enough  left  to  distress  me?  Do  you  think  I  un- 
derrate the  evil  of  the  occupation,  even  though  I  believe 
it  has  not  tainted  him?  Having  owned  him  as  a  friend, 
isn't  it  difficult  to  know  what  degree  of  friendship  I  can 
continue  to  own  for  him?  " 

"  My  dear,  I  think  you  hardly  realise  how  unwise  it  is  to 
think  of  friendship  between  yourself  and  any  such  man; 
recognition  of  worth  onore  may  be,  but  nothing  more." 

"Oh,  papa!" — impatiently — "think  of  it  as  you  will, 
but  listen  to  what  I  have  to  say;  for  I  am  in  trouble.  You 
were  sorry  for  me  just  now  when  you  imagined  I  was  in 
love;  try  and  understand  what  I  say  now,  for  I  am  in  dis- 
tress. I  cannot  see  through  this  question — what  is  the 
right  and  what  is  tlie  wrong." 


CHAP,  xviii]       WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


423 


>> 


3an 


the 


"I  do  not  think  I  understand  you,  my  dear,"  he  said. 

She  had  stopped,  and  leaned  back  on  the  roadside  fence. 
He  stood  before  her.  All  around  them  the  yellow  golden- 
rod  and  mullein  were  waving  in  the  wind,  and  lithe  young 
trees  bent  with  their  coloured  leaves.  Captain  Rexford 
looked  at  his  daughter,  and  wondered,  in  his  slow  way, 
that  she  was  not  content  to  be  as  fair  and  stately  as  the 
flowers  without  perplexing  herself  thus. 

''  Papa,  pray  listen.  You  know  that  night  when  I  went 
to  seek  Winifred — you  do  not  know,  because  I  have  not 
told  you — but  just  before  the  old  man  died.  When  he 
stood  there,  looking  up  and  praying  that  our  Saviour  would 
come  again,  there  was  not  one  of  us  who  was  not  carried 
away  with  the  thor.ght  of  that  coming — the  thought  that 
when  it  comes  all  time  will  he,  present,  wot  imst;  and,  papa, 
the  clouds  parted  just  a  little,  and  we  saw  through,  beyond 
all  the  damp,  dark  gloom  of  the  place  we  were  in,  into  a 
place  of  such  perfect  clearness  and  beauty  beyond — I  can't 
explain  it,  but  it  seemed  like  an  emblem  of  the  difference 
that  would  be  between  our  muddy  ways  of  thinking  of 
things  and  the  way  that  we  should  think  if  we  lived 
always  for  the  sake  of  the  time  when  He  will  come — and  it 
is  very  easy  to  tall:  of  that  difference  in  a  large  general 
way,  and  it  does  no  good — but  to  bring  each  particular 
thing  to  that  test  is  practical.  Here,  for  instance,  you  and 
I  ought  to  reconsider  our  beliefs  and  prejudices  as  they 
regard  this  man  we  are  talking  about,  and  find  out  what 
part  of  them,  in  God's  sight,  is  pure  and  strong  and  to  be 
maintained,  and  what  part  is  unworthy  and  to  be  cast 
away.     Is  it  easy,  even  in  such  a  small  matter  as  this?" 

Captain  Rexford  took  off  his  hat  in  tribute  to  his  theme, 
and  stood  bare-headed.  He  looked  what  he  was— a  mili- 
tary man  of  the  past  and  more  formal  generation,  who  with 
difficulty  had  adapted  himself  to  the  dress  and  habits  of  a 
farmer.  He  was  now  honestly  doing  his  utmost  to  bring 
himself  to  something  still  more  foreign  to  his  former 
experience. 


I 


-I 


424 


IVI/AT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [boor  hi 


"To  put  it  in  a  practical  way,  papa:  if  our  Lord  were 
coming  to-morrow,  how  would  you  advise  me  to  meet  Alec 
Trenholme  to-day?" 

"  Of  course, "  began  Captain  Kexford,  "  in  sight  of  the 
Almighty  all  men  are  equal." 

"No,  no,"  she  pleaded,  "by  all  that  is  true,  men  are  not 
equal  nor  are  occupations  equal.  Everything  has  its 
advantages  and  disadvantages.  It  is  not  as  well  to  be 
stupid  as  to  be  wise,  to  be  untaught  as  to  be  taught,  to  be 
ugly  as  to  be  beautiful;  it  is  not  as  good  to  kill  cattle 
as  to  till  the  soil,  and  it  is  not  as  good  to  be  a  farmer  as  to 
be  a  poet.  It  is  just  because  moralists  go  too  far,  and  say 
what  is  not  true,  that  they  fail.  External  things  are  of 
more  importance  to  their  Creator  than  they  are  even 
to  us." 

Captain  Kexford  brushed  his  hat  with  his  sleeve.  The 
thing  that  he  was  most  anxious  to  do  at  that  moment  was 
to  pacify  his  daughter. 

"  But  if  you  feel  this  difference  so  keenly,  Sophia,  what 
then  perplexes  you?" 

"  I  want  to  know  how  to  deal  with  these  differences,  for 
the  way  we  have  been  accustomed  to  deal  with  them  is 
false.  This  case,  where  one  brother  is  at  the  top  of  our 
little  society  and  the  other  at  the  bottom,  shows  it.  Not 
all  false — there  comes  the  difficulty  "  (her  face  was  full  of 
distress),  "but  largely  false.  If  we  have  any  spiritual  life 
in  us  it  is  because  we  have  heard  the  call  that  Lazarus 
heard  in  the  tomb,  but  the  opinions  we  will  not  let  God 
transform  are  the  graveclothes  that  are  binding  us  hand 
and  foot." 

"  My  dear,  I  certainly  think  it  right  that  we  should  live 
as  much  as  possible  as  we  should  wish  to  have  lived  when 
we  come  to  die,  but  I  do  not  know  that  for  that  it  is 
necessary  to  make  a  radical  change  in  our  views." 

"  Look  you,  dear  father,  if  we  were  willing  to  step  out  of 
our  own  thoughts  about  everything  as  out  of  a  hindering 
garment,  and  go  forth  in  the  thoughts  in  which  God  is  will- 


CHAP,  xviii]       tVI/AT  ATECBSS/TV  kI\r0WS 


425 


ing  to  clothe  us,  we  should  see  a  now  heaven  and  a  new 


earth;  but — but- 


)) 


she  sought  her  word. 


"There  may  be  truth  in  what  you  say"  (his  words 
showed  how  far  he  had  been  able  to  follow  her),  "but  your 
views  would  lead  to  very  revolutionary  practices." 

"  Revolution !  Ah,  that  takes  place  when  men  take  some 
new  idea  of  their  own,  like  the  bit,  between  their  teeth,  and 
run.  But  I  said  to  live  in  His  ideas — His,  without  Whom 
nothing  was  made  that  was  made ;  Who  caused  creation  to 
revolve  slowly  out  of  chaos  "  (she  looked  around  at  the  mani- 
fold life  of  tree  and  flower  and  bird  as  she  spoke) ;  "  Who 
will  not  break  the  reed  of  our  customs  as  long  as  there  is 
any  true  substance  left  in  it  to  make  music  with." 

"It  sounds  very  beautiful,  my  dear,  but  is  it  prac- 
ticable?" 

"  As  practicable  as  is  any  holy  life ! "  she  cried.  "  We 
believe ;  if  we  do  not  live  by  a  miracle  we  have  no  sort  or 
manner  of  right  to  preach  to  those  who  do  not  believe." 

Captain  Rexford  would  have  died  for  his  belief  in  mira- 
cles, but  he  only  believed  in  them  at  the  distance  of  some 
eighteen  hundred  years  or  more. 

"How  would  you  apply  this?"  he  asked,  mildly  indul- 
gent. 

"  To  the  question  of  each  hour  as  it  comes.  What,  for 
instance,  is  the  right  way  to  act  to  Alec  Trenholme?  " 

When  she  came  to  his  name  for  some  reason  she  left 
her  standing-place,  and  they  were  now  walking  on  side 
by  side. 

"Well,  Sophia,  you  bring  an  instance,  and  you  say,  'put 
it  practically.'  I  will  do  so.  This  village  is  badly  in 
need  of  such  a  tradesman.  Even  the  hotel,  and  other 
houses  that  can  afford  it,  grumble  at  having  to  obtain  their 
supplies  by  rail,  and  we  are  badly  enough  served,  as  you 
know.  I  have  no  idea  that  this  young  man  has  any  notion 
of  settling  here,  but,  suppose  he  did  "  (Captain  Rexford  said 
his  last  words  as  if  they  capped  a  climax),  "you  will  see  at  a 
glance  that  in  that  case  any  recognition  of  equality  such  as 


426 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  hi 


you  seem  to  be  proposing,  would  be  impossible.  It  would 
be  mere  confusion." 

"And  why  should  he  not  settle  here?  Are  we,  a  Chris- 
tian community,  unable  to  devise  a  way  of  treating  him  and 
his  brother  that  would  neither  hurt  their  feelings  nor  our 
welfare,  that  would  be  equally  consonant  with  our  duty  to 
God  and  our  own  dignity?  Or  must  he  go,  because  our 
dignity  is  such  a  fragile  thing  that  it  would  need  to  be 
supported  by  actions  that  we  could  not  offer  to  God?" 

"  You  know,  my  dear,  if  you  will  excuse  my  saying  so, 
I  think  you  are  pushing  this  point  a  little  too  far.  If  it 
were  possible  to  live  up  to  such  a  high  ideal " 

"  I  would  rather  die  to-night  than  think  that  it  was  im- 
possible." 

"My  dear"  (he  was  manifestly  annoyed  now),  "you 
really  express  yourself  too  strongly." 

"But  what  use  would  it  be  to  live?"  She  was  going  on 
but  she  stopped.     What  use  was  it  to  talk?    None. 

She  let  the  subject  pass  and  they  conversed  on  other 
things. 

She  felt  strange  loneliness.  "  Am  I,  in  truth,  fantasti- 
cal?" she  sighed,  "or,  if  Heaven  is  witness  to  the  sober 
truth  of  that  which  I  conceive,  am  I  so  weak  as  to  need 
other  sympathy?"  This  was  the  tenor,  not  the  words,  of 
her  thought.  Yet  all  the  way  home,  as  they  talked  and 
walked  through  the  glowing  autumn  land,  her  heart  was 
aching. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


> 


The  day  came  on  which  Bates  was  to  go  home.  He  had 
had  a  week's  petulant  struggle  with  his  malady  since  he 
last  passed  through  the  door  of  Trenholme's  house,  but 
now  he  had  conquered  it  for  the  hour,  and  even  his  host 
perceived  that  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  make  his  journey 
before  the  weather  grew  colder. 


f 


CHAP,  xix]  PV//AT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


427 


it 


lost 
hiey 


> 


', 


His  small  belongings  packed,  his  morose  good-byes  said, 
Alec  Trenholme  drove  him  to  the  railway  station. 

Both  the  brothers  knew  why  it  was  that,  in  taking  leave 
of  them.  Bates  hardly  seemed  to  notice  that  he  did  so ;  they 
knew  that,  in  leaving  the  place,  he  was  all-engrossed  in 
the  thought  that  he  was  leaving  the  girl,  Eliza  Cameron, 
for  ever ;  but  he  seemed  to  have  no  thought  of  saying  to  her 
a  second  farewell. 

The  stern  reserve  which  Bates  had  maintained  on  this 
subject  had  so  wrought  on  Alec's  sympathy  that  he  had 
consulted  his  brotlier  as  to  the  advisability  of  himself 
making  some  personal  appeal  to  Eliza,  and  the  day  before 
Bates  started  he  had  actually  gone  on  this  mission.  If  it 
was  not  successful,  he  hardly  deserved  that  it  should  be; 
for  when  he  stood  in  front  of  the  girl,  he  could  not  conceal 
the  great  dislike  he  felt  for  her,  nor  could  he  bring  himself 
to  plead  on  behalf  of  a  man  who  he  felt  was  worth  a  thou- 
sand such  as  she.  He  said  briefly  that  Bates  was  to  start 
for  home  the  next  day,  and  by  such  a  train,  and  that  he 
had  thought  it  might  concern  her  to  know  it. 

"Did  he  tell  you  to  tell  me?"  asked  Eliza,  without  ex- 
pression. 

"No,  he  didn't;  and  what's  more,  he  never  told  me  how 
you  came  here.  You  think  he's  been  telling  tales  about 
you!  You  can  know  now  that  he  never  did;  he's  not  that 
sort.  I  saw  you  at  Turrifs,  and  when  I  saw  you  again 
here  I  knew  you.  All  I've  <?ot  to  say  about  that  is,  that  I, 
for  one,  don't  like  that  ki.id  of  conduct.  You've  half 
killed  Bates,  and  this  winter  will  finish  him  off." 

"That's  not  my  fault,"  said  Eliza. 

"Oh?  Well,  that's  for  you  to  settle  with  yourself.  I 
thought  I'd  come  and  tell  you  what  I  thought  about  it,  and 
that  he  was  going.     That's  all  I've  got  to  say." 

"But  I've  something  more  to  say,  and  you'll  stay  and 
hear  it."  She  folded  her  arms  upon  her  breast,  and 
looked  at  him,  a  contemptuous,  indignant  Amazon.  "  You 
think  Mr.  Bates  would  ihank  you  if  you  got  me  to  go  away 


428  -     IVHAr  NECESSITY  KN'OIVS  [book  hi 

with  him  because  I  was  afraid  he'd  die.  You  think  " — 
growing  sarcastic — "  that  Mr.  Bates  wants  me  to  go  with 
him  because  Vm  sorry  for  liim.  I  tell  you,  if  I  did  what 
you're  asking,  Mr.  Bates  would  be  tlie  first  to  tell  you  to 
mind  your  own  business  and  to  send  me  ii  out  mine." 

She  relapsed  into  cold  silence  for  a  minute,  and  then 
added,  "If  you  think  Mr.  Bates  can't  do  his  own  love- 
making,  you're  vastly  mistaken." 

It  did  not  help  to  soothe  Alec  that,  when  he  went  home, 
his  brother  laughed  at  his  recital. 

"She  is  a  coarse-minded  person,"  he  said.  "I  shall 
never  speak  to  her  again." 

This  had  happened  the  day  before  he  drove  Bates  to  the 
station. 

It  was  a  midday  train.  The  railway  platform  was  com- 
paratively empty,  for  the  season  of  summer  visitors  was 
past.  The  sun  glared  with  unsoftened  light  on  the  painted 
station  building,  on  the  bare  boards  of  the  platform,  upon 
the  varnished  exterior  of  the  passenger  cars,  and  in, 
through  their  windows,  upon  the  long  rows  of  red  velvet 
seats.  Alec  disposed  Bates  and  his  bundles  on  a  seat 
near  the  stove  at  the  end  of  one  of  the  almost  empty  cars. 
Then  he  stood,  without  much  idea  what  to  say  in  the  few 
minutes  before  the  train  started. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "you'll  be  at  Quebec  before  dark." 

As  they  both  knew  this,  Bates  did  not  consider  it  worth 
an  answer.  His  only  desire  was  that  the  train  should  be 
gone,  so  that  he  might  be  left  alone.  He  was  a  good  deal 
oppressed  by  the  idea  of  his  indebtedness  to  Alec,  but  he 
had  already  said  all  on  that  head  that  was  in  him  to  sayj 
it  had  not  been  much. 

An  urchin  came  by,  bawling  oranges.  They  looked 
small  and  sour,  but,  for  sheer  lack  of  anything  better  to  do, 
Alec  went  out  of  the  car  to  buy  a  couple.  He  was  just 
stepping  in  again  to  present  them  when,  to  his  surprise,  he 
became  aware  that  one  of  the  various  people  on  the  plat- 
form was  Eliza  Cameron.     When  he  caught  sight  of  her 


CHAP.  XIX]         IVHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


429 


eal 
he 

fay  5 


lie 

)lat- 

her 


she  was  coming  running  from  the  other  end  of  tlie  train, 
her  face  red  with  exertion  and  her  dress  disordered.  She 
looked  in  at  the  windows,  saw  Bates,  and  entered  where 
Alec  had  intended  to  enter,  he  drawing  aside,  and  she  not 
even  seeing  him. 

The  impetus  of  his  intention  carried  Alec  on  to  the  outer 
porch  of  the  car,  but  his  consideration  for  Bates  caused 
him  then  to  turn  his  back  to  the  door,  and  gaze  down  the 
long  level  track,  waiting  until  Eliza  should  come  out  again. 

The  prospect  that  met  his  gaze  was  one  in  which  two 
parallel  straight  lines  met  visibly  in  the  region  of  some- 
where. He  remembered  learning  that  such  two  lines  do, 
in  truth,  always  meet  in  infinity.  He  wondered  drearily 
if  this  were  a  parable.  As  he  saw  his  life,  all  that  he 
desired  and  all  that  was  right  seemed  to  lie  in  two  tracks, 
side  by  side,  but  for  ever  apart. 

The  advent  of  Eliza  had  sunk  into  less  significance  in 
his  mind  by  the  time  he  heard  the  engine's  warning  bell. 
He  turned  and  looked  into  the  car.  There  sat  the  man 
whom  he  had  left,  but  not  the  same  man ;  a  new  existence 
seemed  to  have  started  into  life  in  his  thin  sinewy  frame, 
and  to  be  looking  out  through  the  weather-beaten  visage. 
This  man,  fond  and  happy,  was  actually  addressing  a 
glance  of  arch  amusement  at  the  girl  who,  flushed  and  dis- 
concerted, sought  to  busy  herself  by  rearranging  his  posses- 
sions. So  quickly  did  it  seem  that  Bates  had  travelled 
from  one  extreme  of  life  to  another  that  Alec  felt  no  doubt 
as  to  the  kindly  triumph  in  the  eye.  Explanation  he  had 
none.     He  stepped  off  the  jolting  car. 

"Is  she  coming  out?"  he  asked  the  conductor. 

"No,  she  ain't,"  said  a  Chellaston  man  who  stood  near 
at  hand.  "  She's  got  her  trunk  in  the  baggage  car,  and  she's 
got  her  ticket  for  Quebec,  she  has.  She's  left  the  hotel, 
and  left  old  Hutchins  in  the  lurch — that's  what  she's  done." 

The  train  was  moving  quicker.  The  conductor  had 
jumped  aboard.  Alec  was  just  aware  that  all  who  were  left 
on  the  platform  were  gossiping  about  Eliza's  departure 


430  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  hi 

when  he  was  suddenly  spurred  into  violent  movement  by 
the  recollection  that  he  had  absently  retained  in  his  posses- 
sion Bates's  ticket  and  the  change  of  the  note  given  him  to 
buy  it  with.  To  run  and  swing  himself  on  to  the  last  car 
was  a  piece  of  vigorous  action,  but  once  again  upon  the 
small  rear  porch  and  bound  perforce  for  the  next  station,  he 
gave  only  one  uncomfortable  glance  through  the  glass  door 
and  turned  once  more  to  the  prospect  of  the  long  level 
track.  Who  could  mention  a  railway  ticket  and  small  change 
to  a  man  so  recently  beatified? 

The  awkwardness  of  his  position,  a  shyness  that  came 
over  am  at  the  thought  that  they  must  soon  see  him  and 
wonder  why  he  was  there,  suggested  tlie  wonder  why  he  had 
desired  that  Bates  should  be  happy ;  now  that  he  saw  him 
opulent  in  happiness,  as  it  appeared,  above  all  other  men, 
he  felt  only  irritation — first,  at  the  sort  of  happiness  that 
could  be  derived  from  such  a  woman,  and  secondly,  at  the 
contrast  between  this  man's  fulness  and  his  own  lack.  What 
had  Bates  done  that  he  was  to  have  all  that  he  wanted? 

It  is  an  easier  and  less  angelic  thing  to  feel  sympathy 
with  sorrow  than  with  joy. 

In  a  minute  or  two  it  was  evident  they  had  seen  him,  for 
he  heard  the  door  slide  and  Bates  came  out  on  the  little 
platform.  He  had  gone  into  the  car  feebly;  he  came  out 
with  so  easy  a  step  and  holding  himself  so  erect,  with  even 
a  consequential  pose,  that  a  gleam  of  derision  shot  through 
tlie  younger  man's  mind,  even  though  he  knew  with  the 
quick  knowledge  of  envy  that  it  was  for  the  sake  of  the 
woman  behind  the  door  that  the  other  was  now  making 
the  most  of  himself. 

Alec  gave  what  he  had  to  give;  it  was  not  his  place  to 
make  comment. 

Bates  counted  the  change  with  a  care  that  perhaps  was 
feigned.     If  he  stood  very  straight,  his  hard  liand  trembled. 

"I'm  sorry  ye  were  forced  to  come  on  with  the  cars;  it's 
another  added  to  all  the  good  deeds  you've  done  by  me." 
He  had  found  a  tongue  now  in  which  he  could  be  gracious. 


CHAP.  XIX]  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


431 


to 

Iwas 

Led. 

lit's 

le." 

lus. 


"Oh,  I  shall  soon  get  back,"  said  Alec. 
"  I  suppose  ye' ve  seen  " — with  attempted  coolness — "  that 
my  young  friend  here,  Eliza  Cameron,  is  going  back  with 


me. 


j> 


"  So  I  see."  If  his  life  had  depended  upon  it,  Alec  could 
not  have  refrained  from  a  smile  which  he  felt  might  be 
offensive,  but  it  passed  unseen. 

"When  she  saw  ye  out  here,  she  asked  me  just  to  step 
out,  for  perhaps  ye'd  be  so  kind  as  to  take  a  message  to  a 
young  lady  she  has  a  great  caring  for — i^  Miss  Rexford,  as  I 
understand." 

"  All  right."  Alec  looked  at  the  rails  flying  behind  them, 
and  stroked  his  yellow  moustache,  and  sighed  in  spite  of 
himself. 

"I'd  like  ye  to  tell  Miss  Eexford  from  me  that  we  intend 
to  be  married  to-morrow — in  the  city  of  Quebec ;  but  Sissy, 
she  would  like  ye  to  say  that  she'd  have  gone  to  say  good- 
bye if  she'd  known  her  own  mind  sooner,  and  that  she  pre- 
fairred  to  come  "  (he  rolled  the  r  in  this  "  preferred  "  with 
emphasis  not  too  obvious)  " — ye  understand?" — this  last  a 
little  sharply,  as  if  afraid  that  the  word  might  be  chal- 
lenged. 

Still  looking  upon  the  flying  track.  Alec  nodded  to  show 
that  he  challenged  nothing. 

"And  she  wishes  it  to  be  said,"  continued  the  stiff, 
formal  Scot  (there  was  a  consequential  air  about  him  now 
that  was  almost  insufferable)  "that  for  all  I've  the  inten- 
tion in  my  mind  to  spend  my  life  in  the  old  place,  she 
thinks  she'll  very  likely  break  me  of  it,  and  bring  me  to 
live  in  more  frequented  parts  in  a  year  or  two,  when  she'll 
hope  to  come  and  see  her  friends  again.  'Tis  what  she 
says,  Mr.  Trenholme  "  (and  Alec  knew,  from  his  tone,  that 
Bates,  even  in  speaking  to  him,  had  smiled  again  that 
gloriously  happy  smile),  "and  of  course  I  humour  her  by 
giving  her  words.  As  to  how  that  will  be,  I  can't  say,  but " 
— with  condescension — "ye'd  be  surprised,  Mr.  Trenholme, 
at  the  hold  a  woman  can  get  on  a  man." 


432 


IV//AT  JVKCESSJTV  KNOWS 


[book  III 


"Really — yes,  I  suppose  so,"  Alec  muttered  inanely;  but 
within  he  laid  control  on  himself,  lest  he  should  kick  this 
man.  Surely  it  would  only  make  the  scales  of  fortune 
balance  if  Bates  should  have  a  few  of  his  limbs  broken  to 
pay  for  his  luxury ! 

Alec  turned,  throwing  a  trifle  of  patronage  into  his  fare- 
well. Nature  had  turned  him  out  such  a  good-looking 
fellow  that  he  might  have  spared  the  other,  but  he  was  not 
conscious  of  his  good  looks  just  then. 

"  Well,  Bates,  upon  my  word  I  wish  you  joy.  It's  cer- 
tainly a  relief  to  me  to  think  you  will  have  someone  to  look 
after  that  cough  of  yours,  and  see  after  you  a  bit  when  you 
have  the  asthma.  I  didn't  think  you'd  get  through  this 
winter  alone,  'pon  my  word,  I  didn't;  but  I  hope  that — 
Mrs.  Bates  will  take  good  care  of  you." 

It  was  only  less  brutal  to  hurl  the  man's  weakness  at 
him  than  it  would  have  been  to  hurl  him  off  the  train. 
Yet  Alec  did  it,  then  jumped  from  the  car  when  the  speed 
lessened. 

He  found  himself  left  at  a  junction  which  had  no  interest 
for  him,  and  as  there  was  a  goods  train  going  further  on  to 
that  village  where  he  had  stopped  with  Bates  on  their  first 
arrival  in  these  parts,  he  followed  a  whim  and  went  thither, 
in  order  to  walk  home  by  the  road  on  which  he  had  first 
heard  Sophia's  voice  in  the  darkness. 

Ah,  that  voice — how  clear  and  sweet  and  ringing  it  was ! 
It  was  not  w  .>rds,  but  tones,  of  which  he  was  now  cherishing 
remembrance.  And  he  thought  of  the  face  he  now  knew  so 
well,  hugged  the  thought  of  her  to  his  heart,  and  knew  that 
he  ought  not  to  think  of  her. 

Everywhere  the  trees  hung  out  red  and  yellow,  as  flags 
upon  a  gala  day.  He  saw  the  maples  on  the  mountain  rise 
tier  above  tier,  in  feathery  scarlet  and  gold.  About  his 
feet  the  flowering  weeds  were  blowing  in  one  last  desperate 
effort  of  riotous  bloom.  The  indigo  birds,  like  flakes  from 
the  sky  above,  were  flitting,  calling,  everywhere,  as  they 
tarried  on  their  southward  journey.     Alec  walked  by  the 


CHAP.  XX] 


WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


433 


rusliing  river,  almost  dazzled  by  its  glitter,  and  felt  himself 
to  be,  not  only  an  unhappy,  but  an  ill-disposed  man. 

"And  yet — and  yet — "  thought  he,  "if  Heaven  might 

grant  her  to  me ":  and  the  heaven  above  him  seemed 

like  brass,  and  the  wish  like  a  prayer  gone  mad. 


CHArTER  XX. 

Sophia  had  lived  on  through  a  few  more  quiet  days;  and 
now  she  knew  that  the  problem  to  which  she  had  set  herself 
was  not  that  one  pleasantly  remote  from  her  inmost  self,  as 
to  where  her  duty  lay  in  helping  on  an  ideal  social  state, 
but  another  question,  that  beside  the  first  seemed  wholly 
common  and  vulgar,  one  that  tore  from  her  all  glamours  of 
romantic  conception,  so  that  she  sat,  as  it  were,  in  a  cham- 
ber denuded  of  all  softness  and  beauty,  face  to  face  with  her 
own  pride.  And  so  lusty  was  this  pride  she  had  deemed 
half-dead  that  beside  it  all  her  former  enthusiasms  seemed 
to  fade  into  ghostly  nothings. 

At  first  she  only  dete^  \ined,  by  all  the  chivalrous  blood 
that  ran  in  her  veins,  to  continue  her  kindness  to  the  Tren- 
liolmes.  She  foresaw  a  gust  of  unpopularity  against  them, 
and  she  saw  herself  defending  their  interests  and  defying 
criticism.  In  this  bright  prospect  the  brothers  were  humbly 
grateful  and  she  herself  not  a  little  picturesque  in  generous 
patronage.  It  was  a  delightful  vision — for  an  hour;  but 
because  she  was  nearer  thirty  than  twenty  it  passed  quickly. 
She  touched  it  with  her  knowledge  of  the  world  and  it 
vanished.  No;  social  life  could  not  be  changed  in  a  day; 
it  would  not  be  well  that  it  should  be.  Much  of  the  criti- 
cism that  would  come  in  this  case  would  be  just;  and  the 
harsher  blows  that  would  '  dealt  could  not  be  stayed  nor 
the  unkindness  defied;  even  in  the  smaller  affairs  of  life, 
he  who  would  stand  by  the  wronged  must  be  v/illing  to 
suffer  wrong.     Was  she  ready  for  that?    The  longer  she 


434  WHAT  NECESSITY  fCNOlVS  [nooK  ill 

meditated,  the  more  surely  she  knew  that  Alec  Trei  holme 
loved  her.  And  when  she  had  meditated  a  little  longer — 
in  spite  of  the  indignation  she  had  felt  at  the  bare  sugges- 
tion— she  knew  that  she  loved  him. 

The  fine  theories  of  universal  conduct  in  which  she  had 
been  indulging  narrowed  themselves  down  to  her  own  life 
and  to  sternest,  commonest  reality.  Christianity  is  never 
a  quality  that  can  be  abstracted  from  the  individual  and 
looked  upon  as  having  duties  of  its  own. 

She  fought  against  the  knowledge  that  she  liked  him  so 
well;  the  thought  of  being  his  wife  was  the  thought  of  a 
sacrifice  that  appalled  her.  A  convent  cell  would  not  have 
appeared  to  her  half  so  far  removed  from  all  that  belongs  to 
the  pride  of  life;  and  lives  there  anyone  who  has  so  wholly 
turned  from  that  hydra-headed  delight  as  not  to  shrink,  as 
from  some  touch  of  death,  from  fresh  relinquishment?  Her 
pulses  stirred  to  those  strains  of  life's  music  that  call  to 
emulation  and  the  manifold  pomps  of  honour;  and,  what- 
ever might  be  the  reality,  in  her  judgment  the  wife  of  Alec 
Trenholme  must  renounce  all  that  element  of  interest  in  the 
world  for  ever.  Our  sense  of  distinction  poises  its  wings 
on  the  opinion  of  men;  and,  as  far  as  she  had  learnt  this 
opinion,  a  saint  or  a  nun  (she  knew  it  now,  although  before 
she  had  not  thought  it)  had  honourable  part  in  life's 
pageantry,  but  not  the  wife  of  such  as  he.  The  prospect  in 
her  eyes  was  barren  of  the  hope  that  she  might  ever  again 
have  the  power  to  say  to  anyone,  "I  am  better  than 
thou." 

It  did  not  help  her  that  at  her  initiation  into  the  Chris- 
tian life  she  had  formally  made  just  this  renunciation,  or 
that  she  had  thought  that  before  now  she  had  ratified  the 
vow.  The  meaninglessness  of  such  formulas  when  spoken 
is  only  revealed  when  deepening  life  reveals  their  depths  of 
meaning.  She  asked,  in  dismay,  if  duty  was  calling  her  to 
this  sacrifice  by  the  voice  of  love  in  her  heart.  For  that 
Love  who  carries  the  crown  of  earthly  happiness  in  his  hand 
was  standing  on  the  threshold  of  her  heart  like  a  beggar, 


CHAP.  XX] 


WHAT  NEC  ESS  I  ry  KNOIVS 


435 


ami  so  terrible  did  his  demand  seem  to  her  that  she  felt  it 
would  be  easy  to  turn  him  away. 

"I,"  she  said  to  herself,  "I,  who  have  preaelied  to  others, 
who  have  discoursed  on  the  vanity  of  ambition — tliis  has 
come  to  teach  me  what  stuff  my  glib  entliusiasm  is  made 
of.  I  would  rather  perjure  myself,  ratlier  die,  ratlier  choose 
any  life  of  penance  and  labour,  than  yield  to  my  own 
happiness  and  his,  and  give  up  my  pride." 

She  arrayed  l)efore  her  all  possible  arguments  for  main- 
taining tlie  existing  social  order;  but  conscience  answered, 
"  Y'ou  are  not  asked  to  disturb  it  very  much."  Conscience 
used  an  uncomfortable  plirase — "You  are  only  asked  to 
make  yourself  of  no  reputation."  Slie  cowered  before  Con- 
science. "You  are  not  even  asked  to  make  yourself 
unliappy,"  continued  Conscience;  and  so  the  inward  monitor 
talked  on  till,  all  wearied,  her  will  held  out  a  flag  of 
truce. 

Most  women  would  have  thought  of  a  compromise,  would 
have  said,  "Yes,  I  will  stoop  to  the  man,  but  I  will  raise 
him  to  some  more  desirable  estate";  but  sucli  a  woman  was 
not  Sophia  liexford.  She  scorned  love  that  would  make 
conditions  as  much  as  she  scorned  a  religion  that  could  set 
its  own  limits  to  service.  For  her  there  was  but  one  ques- 
tion— Did  Heaven  demand  that  slie  should  acknowledge 
this  love?  If  so,  then  the  all-ruling  Will  of  Heaven  must 
be  the  only  will  that  should  set  bounds  to  its  demand. 

In  the  distress  of  her  mind,  however,  she  did  catch  at 
one  idea  that  was,  in  kind,  a  compromise.  She  thought 
with  relief  that  she  could  take  no  initiative.  If  Alec  Tren- 
holme  asked  her  to  be  his  wife — then  she  knew,  at  last  she 
knew,  that  she  would  not  dare  to  deny  the  voice  at  her 
heart — in  the  light  of  righteousness  and  judgment  to  come, 
she  would  not  dare  to  deny  it.  But — ah,  surely  he  would 
not  ask !  She  caught  at  this  belief  as  an  exhausted  swimmer 
might  catch  at  a  floating  spar,  and  rested  herself  upon  it. 
She  would  deal  honourably  with  her  conscience ;  she  would 
not  abate  her  kindliness;  she  would  give  him  all  fair  oppor- 


436  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  hi 

tunity;  and  if  lie  asked,  she  would  give  up  all — but  she 
clung  to  her  spar  of  hope. 

She  did  not  realise  the  extent  of  her  weakness,  nor  even 
suspect  the  greatness  of  her  strength. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


Robert  Trenholme  had  not  told  his  brother  that  he  had 
made  his  confession  when  he  took  tea  with  all  the  women. 
He  knew  that  in  such  cases  difference  and  separation  are 
often  first  fancied  and  then  created,  by  the  self-conscious 
pride  of  the  person  who  expects  to  be  slighted.  He  re- 
frained from  making  this  possible  on  Alec's  part,  and  set 
himself  to  watch  the  difference  that  would  be  made;  and 
the  interest  of  all  side-issues  was  summed  up  for  him  in 
solicitude  to  know  what  Miss  Rexford  would  do,  for  on  that 
he  felt  his  own  hopes  of  her  pardon  to  depend. 

Wlien  he  found,  the  day  after  Bates's  departure,  that 
Alec  must  seek  Miss  Rexford  to  give  Eliza's  message,  he 
put  aside  work  to  go  with  him  to  call  upon  her.  He  would 
hold  to  his  brother;  it  remained  to  be  seen  how  she  would 
receive  them  together. 

That  same  afternoon  Sophia  went  forth  with  Winifred 
and  the  little  boys  to  gather  autumn  leaves.  When  the  two 
brothers  came  out  of  the  college  gate  they  saw  her,  not 
twenty  yards  away,  at  the  head  of  her  little  troop.  Down 
the  broad  road  the  cool  wind  was  rushing,  and  they  saw  her 
walking  against  it,  outwardly  sedate,  with  roses  on  her 
cheeks,  her  eyes  lit  with  the  sunshine.  The  three  stopped, 
and  ---eeted  each  other  after  the  manner  of  civilised  people. 

Trenholme  knew  that  tlie  change  that  any  member  of  the 
Rexford  family  would  put  into  their  demeanour  could  not 
be  rudely  perceptible.  He  set  no  store  by  her  greeting,  but 
he  put  his  hand  upon  his  brother's  slioulder  and  he  said: 

"  This  fellow  has  news  that  will  surprise  you,  and  a  mes- 


CHAP.  XXI]  WHAT  NECESSITY  A'ATOll'S 


437 


sage  to  give.  Perhaps,  if  it  is  not  asking  too  much,  we  may 
walk  as  far  as  may  be  necessary  to  tell  it,  or,"  and  he 
looked  at  her  questioningly,  "  would  you  like  him  to  go  and 
help  you  to  bring  down  the  high  boughs? — they  have  the 
brightest  leaves." 

"Will  you  come  and  help  us  gather  red  leaves?"  said 
Sophia  to  Alec. 

She  did  not  see  the  gratitude  in  the  elder  brother 's  eyes, 
because  it  did  not  interest  her  to  look  for  it. 

"And  you?"  she  said  to  him. 

"Ah,  I"  (he  held  up  the  cane  with  which  he  still  eased 
the  weight  on  one  foot),  "  I  cannot  walk  so  far,  but  perhaps 
I  will  come  and  meet  you  on  your  return,"  and  he  pleased 
himself  with  the  idea  that  she  cared  that  he  should  come. 

He  went  into  his  house  again.  Kis  heart,  which  had 
lately  been  learning  the  habit  of  peace,  just  now  learned  a 
new  lesson  of  what  joy  might  be.  His  future  before  him 
looked  troublous,  but  the  worst  of  his  fears  was  allayed. 
He  had  loved  Sophia  long;  to-day  his  love  seemed  multi- 
plied a  thousandfold.  Hope  crept  to  his  heart  like  a  darling 
child  that  had  been  in  disgrace  and  now  was  forgiven. 

The  others  went  on  down  the  road. 

Alec  told  his  news  about  Eliza  as  drily  as  facts  could  be 
told.  If  he  touched  his  story  at  all  with  feeling,  it  was 
something  akin  to  a  sneer. 

"She'll  get  him  on  to  the  track  of  prosperity  now  she's 
taken  hold,  Miss  Kexford,"  said  he.  "Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bates 
will  be  having  a  piano  before  long,  and  they  will  drive  in  a 
'buggy.'     That's  the  romance  of  a  settler's  life  in  Canada." 

When  they  had  left  that  subject  Sophia  said,  "  Now  he 
is  gone,  are  you  going  away?" 

"  Yes ;  in  a  day  or  two.  I've  fixed  nothing  yet,  because 
Eobert  seems  to  have  some  unaccountable  objection  to 
getting  rid  of  me  just  at  present;  but  I  shall  go." 

"It  is  very  fine  weather,"  she  said. 

"There  is  too  much  glare,"  said  he. 

"You  are  surely  hard  to  please." 


■Mi,p.w»i"  •v'vt    '■*!  vri 


438  lV//Ar  NEC  ESS/TV  KNOWS  [book  iir 

"  What  I  call  fine  weather  is  something  a  man  has  some- 
thing in  common  with.  If  one  were  a  little  chap  again, 
just  leaving  school  for  a  holiday,  this  would  be  a  glorious 
day,  but — what  man  has  spirits  equal  to  "  (he  looked  above) 
"this  sort  of  thing." 

His  words  came  home  to  Sophia  with  overwhelming 
force,  for,  as  they  went  on,  touching  many  subjects  one 
after  another,  she  knew  with  absolute  certainty  that  her 
companion  had  not  the  slightest  intention  of  being  her 
suitor.  If  the  sunny  land  through  which  she  was  walking 
had  been  a  waste  place,  in  which  storm  winds  sighed,  over 
which  storm  clouds  muttered,  it  would  have  been  a  fitter 
home  for  her  heart  just  then.  She  saw  that  she  was  to 
be  called  to  no  sacrifice,  but  she  experienced  no  buoyant 
relief.  He  was  going  away;  and  she  was  to  be  left.  She 
had  not  known  herself  when  she  thought  she  wanted  him 
to  go — she  was  miserable.  Well,  she  deserved  her  misery, 
for  would  she  not  be  more  miserable  if  she  married  him? 
Had  she  not  cried  and  complained?  And  now  the  door  of 
this  renunciation  was  not  opened  to  her—he  was  going 
away,  and  she  was  to  be  left. 

Very  dull  and  prosaic  was  the  talk  of  these  two  as  they 
walked  up  the  road  to  that  pine  grove  where  the  river 
curved  in,  and  they  turned  back  through  that  strip  of  wil- 
derness between  road  and  river  where  it  was  easy  to  be  seen 
that  the  brightest  leaf  posies  were  to  be  had. 

Nearest  the  pines  was  a  group  of  young,  stalwart  maple 
trees,  each  of  a  different  dye — gold,  bronze,  or  red.  It 
was  here  that  they  lingered,  and  Alec  gathered  boughs  for 
the  children  till  their  hands  were  full.  The  noise  of  the 
golden-winged  woodpecker  was  in  the  air,  and  the  call  of 
the  indigo  bird. 

Sophia  wandered  under  the  branches;  her  mind  was 
moving  always.  She  was  unhappy.  Yes,  she  deserved 
that;  but  he — he  was  unhappy  too;  did  he  deserve  it? 
Then  she  asked  herself  suddenly  if  she  had  no  further 
duty  toward  him  than  to  come  or  go  at  his  call.     Did  she 


CHAP.  xxO         WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


439 


dare,  by  all  that  was  true,  to  wreck  his  life  and  her  own 
because  she  would  not  stoop  to  compel  the  call  that  she  had 
feared? 

Humility  does  not  demand  that  we  should  think  ill  of 
ourselves,  but  that  we  should  not  think  of  ourselves  at  all. 
When  Sophia  lost  sight  of  herself  she  saw  the  gate  of 
Paradise.  After  that  she  was  at  one  again  with  the  sun- 
shine and  the  breeze  and  the  birds,  with  the  rapture  of  the 
day  and  the  land,  and  she  ceased  to  think  why  she  acted, 
or  whether  it  was  right  or  wrong.  The  best  and  worst 
hours  of  life  are  in  themselves  irresponsible,  the  will 
hurled  headlong  forward  by  an  impulse  that  has  gathered 
force  before. 

And  what  did  she  do?  The  first  thing  that  entered  her 
mind — it  mattered  not  what  to  her.  The  man  was  in  her 
power,  and  she  knew  it. 

When  the  children's  arms  were  full  and  they  had  gone 
on  homeward  down  a  pathway  among  lower  sumac  thickets, 
Alec  turned  and  saw  Sophia,  just  as  stately,  just  as  quiet, 
as  he  had  ever  seen  her.     So  they  two  began  to  follow. 

Her  hand  had  been  cut  the  day  before,  and  the  handker- 
chief that  bound  it  had  come  off.  Demurely  she  gave  it  to 
him  to  be  fastened.  Now  the  hand  had  been  badly  cut, 
and  when  he  saw  that  he  could  not  repress  the  tenderness 
of  his  sympathy. 

"How  could  you  have  done  it?"  he  asked,  filled  with 
pain,  awed,  wondering. 

She  laughed,  though  she  did  not  mean  to;  she  was  so 
light-hearted,  and  it  was  very  funny  to  see  how  quickly 
he  softened  at  her  will. 

"Do  not  ask  me  to  tell  you  how  low  we  Rexfords  have 
descended!"  she  cried,  "and  yet  I  will  confess  I  did  it 
with  the  meat  axe.  I  ought  not  to  touch  such  a  thing,  you 
think!  Nay,  what  can  I  do  when  the  loin  is  not  jointed 
and  the  servant  has  not  so  steady  a  hand  as  I?  Would  you 
have  me  let  papa  grumble  all  dinner-time — the  way  that 
you  men  do,  you  know  i* " 


440  PVHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS  [book  lir 

The  little  horror  that  she  had  painted  for  him  so  vividly 
did  its  work.  With  almost  a  groan  he  touched  the  hand 
with  kisses,  not  knowing  what  he  did;  and  looking  up, 
frightened  of  her  as  far  as  he  could  be  conscious  of  fear, 
he  saw,  not  anger,  but  a  face  that  fain  would  hide  itself, 
and  he  hid  it  in  his  embrace. 

"Oh,"  cried  he,  "what  have  I  done?" 

Stepping  backward,  he  stood  a  few  paces  from  her,  his 
arms  crossed,  the  glow  on  his  face  suddenly  transcended  by 
the  look  with  which  a  man  might  regard  a  crime  he  had 
committed. 

"What  is  it?"  she  cried,  wickedly  curious.  The  maple 
tree  over  her  was  a  golden  flame  and  her  feet  were  on  a 
carpet  of  gold.  All  around  them  the  earth  was  heaped 
with  palm-like  sumac  shrubs,  scarlet,  crimson,  purple — 
dyed  as  it  were,  with  blood. 

"What  have  I  done? "  He  held  out  his  hands  as  if  they 
had  been  stained.  "  I  have  loved  you,  I  have  dared,  with- 
out a  thought,  without  a  thought  for  you,  to  walk  straight 
into  all  the — the — heaven  of  it." 

Then  he  told  her,  in  a  word,  that  about  himself  which  he 
thought  she  would  despise ;  and  she  saw  that  he  thought 
she  heard  it  for  the  first  time. 

Lifting  her  eyebrows  in  pretty  incredulity.  "  Not  really?  " 
she  said. 

"It  is  true,"  he  cried  with  fierce  emphasis. 

At  that  she  looked  grave. 

He  had  been  trying  to  make  her  serious ;  but  no  sooner 
did  he  see  her  look  of  light  and  joy  pass  into  a  look  of 
thought  than  he  was  filled  with  that  sort  of  acute  misery 
which  differs  from  other  sorrows  as  acute  pain  differs  from 
duller  aches. 

"My  darling,"  he  said,  hip  heart  was  wrung  with  the 
words — "my  darling,  if  I  have  hurt  you,  I  have  almost 
killed  myself."  (Man  that  he  was,  he  believed  that  his 
life  must  ebb  in  this  pain.) 

"  Why?  "  she  asked.     "  How?  " 


I 


CHAP,  xxi]  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


441 


He  went  a  step  nearer  her,  but  as  it  came  to  him  every 
moment  more  clearly  that  he  had  deceived  her,  as  he 
realised  what  he  had  gained  and  what  he  now  thought  to 
forego,  his  voice  forsook  him  in  his  effort  to  speak.  Words 
that  he  tried  to  say  died  on  his  lips. 

But  she  saw  that  he  had  tried  to  say  that  because  of  it 
she  should  not  marry  him. 

He  tried  again  to  speak  and  made  better  work  of  it. 
"  This  that  has  come  to  us — this  love  that  has  taken  us 
both — you  will  say  it  is  not  enough  to — to " 

She  lifted  up  her  face  to  him.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed; 
her  eyes  were  full  of  light.     "  This  that  has  come  to  us, 

Alec "  (At  his  name  he  came  nearer  yet)  "this  that 

has  taken  us  both"  (she  faltered)  "is  enough." 

He  came  near  to  her  again  \  he  took  her  hands  into  his ; 
and  all  that  he  felt  and  all  that  she  felt,  passed  from  his 
eyes  to  hers,  from  hers  to  his. 

He  said,  "  It  seems  like  talking  in  church,  but  common 
things  must  be  said  and  answered,  and — Sophie — what  will 
your  father  say?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said;  but  happiness  made  her  play- 
ful; she  stroked  the  sleeve  of  his  coat,  as  if  to  toucli  it 
were  of  more  interest  to  her.  "  I  will  give  him  my  fortune 
to  make  up,  and  come  to  you  penniless." 

"He  won't  consent,"  he  urged. 

There  was  still  a  honeyed  carelessness  in  her  voice  and 
look.  "  At  the  great  age  to  which  I  have  attained, "  said 
she,  "fathers  don't  interfere." 

"  What  can  I  do  or  say,"  he  said,  " to  make  you  consider?  " 
for  it  seemed  to  him  that  her  thoughts  and  voice  came  from 
her  spellbound  in  some  strange  delight,  as  the  murnnir  comes 
from  a  running  stream,  without  meaning,  except  tne  mean- 
ing of  all  beautiful  and  happy  things  in  God's  world. 

"What  must  I  consider?" 

"The  shop— the  trade." 

"  When  you  were  a  very  young  butcher,  and  first  took  to 
it,  did  you  like  it?  " 


442  tVBAT  ATECESS/ry  KNOWS  [boor  lit 

"I  wasn't  squeamish,"  he  said;  and  then  he  told  her 
about  his  father.  After  that  he  pliilosophised  a  little, 
telling  something  of  the  best  that  he  conceived  might 
be  if  men  sought  the  highest  ideal  in  lowly  walks  of  life, 
instead  of  seeking  to  perform  imperfectly  some  nobler  busi- 
ness. It  was  wonderful  how  much  better  he  could  speak 
to  her  than  to  his  brother,  but  Sophia  listened  with  such 
perfect  assent  that  his  sense  of  honour  again  smote  him. 

"Art  thinking  of  it  all,  love?"  he  said. 

"  I  was  wondering  what  colour  of  aprons  you  wore,  and 
if  I  must  make  them." 

They  began  to  walk  home,  passing  now  under  the  sumac's 
palm-like  canopy,  and  they  saw  the  blue  gleam  of  the  sing- 
ing river  through  red  thickets.  Soon  they  came  to  a  bit  of 
open  ground,  all  overgrown  with  bronzed  bracken,  and 
maidenhair  sere  and  pink,  and  blue-eyed  asters  and  golden- 
rod.  So  high  and  thick  were  the  breeze-blown  weeds  that 
the  only  place  to  set  the  feet  was  a  very  narrow  path. 
Here  Sophia  walked  first,  for  they  could  not  walk  abreast, 
and  as  Alec  watched  her  threading  her  way  with  light 
elastic  step,  he  became  afraid  once  more,  and  tried  to 
break  through  her  happy  tranquillity. 

"Dear  love,"  he  said,  "I  hope " 

"What  now?"  said  she,  for  his  tone  was  unrestful. 

He  trampled  down  flowers  and  ferns  as  he  awkwardly 
tried  to  gain  her  side. 

"You  know,  dear,  I  have  a  sort  of  feeling  that  I've  per- 
haps just  fascinated  and  entranced  you — so  that  you  are 
under  a  spell  and  don't  consider,  you  know." 

It  was  exactly  what  he  meant,  and  he  said  it;  but  how 
merrily  she  laughed!  Her  happy  laughter  rang;  the  river 
laughed  in  answer,  and  tlie  woodpecker  clapped  applause. 

But  Alec  blushed  very  much  and  stumbled  upon  the 
tangled  weeds. 

"  I  only  meant — I — I  didn't  mean That  is  the  way  I 

feel  fascinated  by  you,  you  know;  and  I  suppose  it  might 
be  the  same " 


CHAP.  XXI]  IVHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


443 


They  walked  on,  she  still  advancing  a  few  paces  because 
she  had  the  path,  he  retarded  because,  in  his  attempt  to 
come  up  with  her,  he  was  knee-deep  in  flowers.  But  after 
a  minute,  observing  that  he  was  hurt  in  his  mind  because 
of  her  laughter,  she  mocked  him,  laughing  again,  but  turned 
the  sunshine  of  her  loving  face  full  upon  him  as  she  did  so. 

"  Most  fascinating  and  entrancing  of  butchers ! "  quoth  she. 

With  that  as  she  entered  another  thicket  of  sumac  trees, 
he  cauyrht  and  kissed  her  in  its  shade. 


And  there  was  one  man  who  heard  her  words  and  saw  his 
act,  one  who  took  in  the  full  meaning  of  it  even  more  clearly 
than  they  could,  because  they  in  their  transport  had  not 
his  clearness  of  vision.  Robert  Trenholme,  coming  to  seek 
them,  chanced  in  crossing  this  place,  thick  set  with  shrubs, 
to  come  near  them  unawares,  and  seeing  them,  and  having 
at  the  sight  no  power  in  him  to  advance  another  step  or 
speak  a  word,  he  let  them  pass  joyously  on  their  way 
towards  home.  It  was  not  many  moments  before  they  had 
passed  oif  the  scene,  and  he  was  left  the  only  human  actor 
in  that  happy  wilderness  where  flower  anl  leaf  and  bird, 
the  blue  firmament  on  high  and  the  sparkling  river,  rejoiced 
together  in  the  glory  of  light  and  colour. 

Trenholme  crossed  the  path  and  strode  through  flowery 
tangle  and  woody  thicket  like  a  giant  in  sudden  strength, 
snapping  all  that  offered  to  detain  his  feet.  He  sought,  he 
knew  not  why,  the  murmur  and  the  motion  of  the  river; 
and  where  young  trees  stood  thickest,  as  spearsmen  to  guard 
the  loneliness  of  its  bank,  he  sat  down  upon  a  rock  and 
covered  his  face,  as  if  even  from  the  spirits  of  solitude 
and  from  his  own  con.  ^usness  he  must  hide.  He  thought 
of  nothing:  his  soul  within  him  was  mad. 

He  had  co^^e  c  '  Df  his  school  not  half  an  hour  before, 
rejoicing  m  re  thtUi  any  schoolboy  going  to  r>iay  in  the 
glorious  weaJic  .  For  him  there  was  not  tO'  ^h  light 
on  the  lovely  autumn  landscape;  it  was  all  a  pat i;  of  the 
peace  that  was  within  him  and  without,  of  the  God  he 


444  WHAT  UECESS/ry  KNOWS  [book  hi 

knew  to  bo  within  him  and  without — for,  out  of  his  strug- 
gle for  righteousness  in  small  things,  he  had  come  back 
into  that  light  which  most  men  cannot  see  or  believe.  Just 
in  so  far  as  a  man  comes  into  that  light  he  ceases  to  know 
himself  as  separate,  but  knows  that  he  is  a  part  of  all  men 
and  all  things,  that  his  joy  is  the  joy  of  all  men,  that 
their  pain  is  his;  therefore,  as  Trenholrae  desired  the  ful- 
filment of  his  own  hopes,  he  desired  that  all  hope  in  the 
world  might  find  fruition.  And  because  this  day  he  saw 
— what  is  always  true  if  we  could  but  see  it — that  joy  is  a 
thousandfold  greater  than  pain,  the  glory  of  the  autumn 
seemed  to  him  like  a  psalm  of  praise,  and  he  gave  thanks 
for  all  men. 

Thus  Trenholme  had  walked  across  the  fields,  into  these 
groves — but  now,  as  he  sat  by  the  river,  all  that,  for  the 
time,  had  passed  away,  exce[)t  as  some  indistinct  memory 
of  it  maddened  him.  His  heart  was  full  of  rage  against 
his  brother,  rage  too  against  the  woman  he  loved ;  and  with 
this  rage  warred  most  bitterly  a  self-loathing  because  he 
knew  that  his  anger  against  them  was  unjust.  She  did  not 
know,  she  had  no  cause  to  know,  that  she  had  darkened 
his  whole  life;  but — what  a  fool  she  was!  What  compan- 
ionship could  that  thoughtless  fellow  give  her?  How  he 
would  drag  her  down!  And  7ie,  too,  could  not  know  that 
he  had  better  have  killed  his  brother  than  done  this  thing. 
But  any  woman  would  have  done  for  Alec;  for  himself  there 
was  only  this  one — only  this  one  in  the  whole  world.  He 
judged  his  brother;  any  girl  with  a  pretty  face  and  a  good 
heart  would  have  done  for  that  boisterous  fellow — while  for 
himself— "Oh  God,"  he  said,  "it  is  hard." 

Thus  accusing  and  excusing  these  lovers,  excusing  and 
again  accusing  himself  for  his  rage  against  them,  he  de- 
scended slowly  into  the  depth  of  his  trouble — for  man,  in 
his  weakness,  is  so  made  that  he  can  come  at  his  worst 
suffering  only  by  degrees.  Yet  when  he  had  made  this 
descent,  the  hope  he  had  cherished  for  months  and  years 
lay  utterly  overthrown;  it  could  not  have  been  more  dead 


CHAP.  XXI]  WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS 


445 


had  it  been  a  hundred  years  in  dying.  He  had  not  known 
before  how  dear  it  was,  yet  he  had  known  tluit  it  was 
dearer  than  all  else,  except  that  other  hope  with  which  we 
do  not  compare  our  desires  for  earthly  good  because  we 
think  it  may  exist  beside  them  and  grow  thereby. 

There  are  times  when,  to  a  man,  time  is  not,  when  the 
life  of  years  is  gathered  into  indefinite  moments;  and 
after,  when  outward  things  claim  again  the  exhausted 
mind,  he  wonders  that  the  day  is  not  further  spent.  And 
Trenholme  wondered  at  the  length  of  that  afternoon,  when 
he  observed  it  again  and  saw  that  the  sun  had  not  yet  sunk 
low,  and  as  he  measured  the  shadows  that  the  bright  trees 
cast  athwart  the  moving  water,  he  was  led  away  to  think 
the  thoughts  that  had  been  his  when  he  had  so  lightly 
come  into  those  gay  autumn  bowers.  A  swallow  skimmed 
the  wave  with  burnished  wing;  again  he  heard  the  breeze 
and  the  rapid  current.  They  were  the  same;  the  move- 
ment and  music  were  the  same;  God  was  still  with  him; 
was  he  so  base  as  to  withhold  the  thanksgiving  that  had 
been  checked  half  uttered  in  his  heart  by  the  spring  of  that 
couchant  sorrow?  The,n  in  the  sum  of  life's  blessings  he 
had  numbered  that  hope  of  his,  and  now  he  had  seen  the 
perfect  fruition  of  that  hope  in  joy.  It  was  not  his  own, 
— but  was  it  not  much  to  know  that  God  had  made  such 
joy,  had  given  it  to  man?  Had  he  in  love  of  God  no  hon- 
est praise  to  give  for  other  men's  mercies?  none  for  the 
joy  of  this  man  who  was  his  brother?  Across  the  murmur 
of  the  river  he  spoke  words  so  familiar  that  they  came  to 
clothe  the  thought — 

"  We  do  give  Thee  most  humble  and  hearty  thanks  for 
all  Thy  goodness  and — loving  kindness — to  us — and  to  all 
men." 

And  although,  as  he  said  them,  his  hand  was  clenched 
so  that  his  fingers  cut  the  palm,  yet,  because  he  gave 
thanks,  Robert  Trenholme  was  nearer  than  he  knew  to 
being  a  holy  man. 

THE   END, 


THE  ONE  GOOD  GUEST. 

A   NOVEL. 

By  L.  B.  WALFORD, 

AUTHOR  OF   ••MK.  SMITH,"  "  THli   BADY's  GRANDMOTHER,"  ETC.,  ETC. 

12mo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $  1  .OO. 

"  It  is  a  delightful  picture  of  lift!  at  an  Kuglish  estate,  which  is  presided  over  by  a  young 
•  Squire'  and  his  young  sister.  Their  experiences  are  cleverly  told,  and  the  complications 
which  arise  are  auiusmg  and  interesting,  'I'liere  are  many  humorous  touches,  too,  which 
add  no  slight  streuijth  to  the  story." — Boston  Times. 

"  Acharnjing  little  social  comedy,  permeated  with  a  refinement  of  spontaneous  humor 
and  brilhaut  with  t  )uches  of  shrewd  and  searciiing  satire." — MosTON  Ukacon. 

"  The  story  is  bright,  amusing,  full  of  interest  and  incident,  and  the  characters  are  ad- 
mirably drawn.  Kvery  reader  will  recognize  a  friend  or  aciiu.iintance  in  some  of  the  ptoplc 
here  pi>rtrayed.  I'',veiy  one  will  wish  he  could  have  been  a  guest  at  Duckbill  Manor,  and 
wdl  hope  that  the  author  has  more  stories  to  tell." — Public  Opinion. 

"  A  natural,  amusing,  kindly  tale,  told  with  great  skill.  The  characters  are  delightfully 
human,  the  individuality  well  caught  and  preserved,  the  ((uaint  humor  lightens  every  page, 
and  a  simple  delicacy  and  tenderness  complete  an  excellent  specimen  of  story  telling." 

—  I'lfOVIDKNCK   JOIIUNAL. 

"  For  neat  little  excursions  into  English  social  life,  and  that  of  the  best,  commend  us  to 
the  writer  of  'The  One  Good  Guest.'  "— N.  Y.  Timus. 

"The  story  is  bright,  amusini,  full  of  interest  and  incident,  and  the  characters  are  ad- 
mirably drawn.  Kvery  reader  will  recognize  a  friend  or  acquaint.mce  in  some  of  the  people 
here  portrayed,  livery  one  will  wish  he  could  have  been  a  guest  at  Duckbill  Manor,  and 
will  hope  that  the  author  has  more  stories  to  tell.'' — Poi<  ii.ani)  Oki^jonian. 


BEGGARS   ALL. 

A  NOVEL. 

By  miss  L.  DOUGALL. 
Sixth  Edition.      12mo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $  1  .OO. 

"This  is  one  of  the  strongest  as  well  as  most  original  romances  of  the  year.  .  .  .  The 
plot  is  extniordmary.  .  .  .  The  close  of  the  story  is  powerful  and  natural,  ...  A 
masterpiece  of  restrained  and  legitimate  dramatic  fiction.*'— Literary  \Vokld. 

"To  say  that  '  Beggars  .Ml'  is  a  remarkable  novel  is  to  put  the  case  mildly  indeed,  for 
it  is  one  of  the  most  origmal,  discerning,  and  thoroughly  philosophical  presentations  of 
character  that  has  appeared  in  English  for  many  a  day.  .  .  .  Emphatically  a  novel 
that  thoughtful  people  ought  to  read  .  .  .  the  perusal  of  it  will  by  many  be  reckoned 
among  thu  intelleotual  experiences  that  are  not  easily  forgotten." — Hostun  Buacon. 

"  A  story  of  thrilling  interest." — Home  Journal. 

"  A  very  unusual  quality  of  novel.  It  is  written  with  ability  ;  it  tells  a  strong  story  with 
elaborate  analysis  of  character  and  motive  .  .  .  it  is  of  decided  interest  and  worth 
reading." — Com.mekcial  Advertiser,  N.  Y.  \ 

'*  It  is  more  than  a  story  for  mere  summer  reading,  but  deserves  a  permanent  place 
among  the  best  works  of  modern  fiction.  The  author  has  struck  a  vein  of  originality  purely 
her  own.  .  .  .  It  is  tragic,  pathetic,  humerous  by  turns.  .  ,  .  Miss  Dougall  has,  in 
fact,  scored  a  great  success.  Her  book  is  artistic,  realistic,  intensely  dramatic — in  fact,  one 
of  the  novels  of  the  year." — Boston  Travellek. 

"  'Beggars  All '  is  a  noble  work  of  art,  but  is  also  something  more  and  something  better.  i 

It  is  a  book  with  a  soul  in  it,  and  in  a  sense,  therefore,  it  may  be  described  as  an  inspired  S 

work.     The  inspiration  of  genius  may  or  may  not  be  lacking  to  it,  but  the  inspiration  of  a  ' 

pure  and  beautifiil  spirituality  pervades  it  completely  ...  the  characters  are  truth- 
fully and  nowerfully  drawn,  the  situations  finely  imagined,  and  the  story  profoundly 
interesting."— Chicago  Tnibune. 


i 


LONaiiANS,  GREEN,  &  00.,  15  EAST  16th  STREET,  NEW  TORE. 


KEITH    DERAMORE. 

A    NOVEL. 

By  the  Author  of  *'  Miss  Molly." 


Crown  8vo,  Cloth,  $1.00. 

"  One  of  the  strongest  novt'ls  for  the  year.  ...  A  book  of  absorbing  and  sustained 
interest,  full  lA  those  touches  of  patlios,  gusts  of  |i.ission,  aii<l  (|uick  ghiupses  into  the  very 
hearts  of  men  anil  women  wliich  are  a  necessary  equipment  of  any  great  writer  of  fiction.'' 

— Star. 

"  A  story  with  ori>;inahty  of  ilot  and  a  number  of  interesting  anil  skillfully  drawn  char- 
acters.    .     .    .     Well  worthy  of  a  careful  perusal."  — Huston  Hkacon. 

"The  few  important  characters  introiluccil  are  very  clearly  ami  well  drawn;  one  is  a 
quite  unusual  type  and  ri'veals  a  good  deal  of  p  iwcr  m  the  author.  It  is  a  live  story  of 
more  than  ordinary  nucrest." — Rkview  of  Rhvmws. 

"A  novel  of  quiet  iiut  distinct  force  and  of  marked  refinement  ni  m.inner.  The  few 
characters  in  '  Keith  Deramore '  are  clearly  and  delicately  drawn,  and  the  slight  plot  is  well 
sustained."— Christian    Union. 

"  The  author  of  'Miss  Molly'  shall  have  her  reward  in  the  reception  of  '  Keith  Dera- 
more.'    If  it  is  not  popular  (here  is  no  value  in  prophecy.'' — .Si'ringfiklu  RkPUHLICAN. 

"The  story  is  strong  and  interesting,  worthy  of  a  high  place  in  fictii)n." 

—  I'uni.ic  Opinion. 

"  Its  development  can  be  followed  with  great  interest.  It  is  well  written  and  entertain- 
ing throughout." — '1'hk  Ckitic. 

"  An  exceptionally  interesting  novel.    It  is  an  admirable  addition  to  an  admirable  series." 

— BosroN  Tkavbllkr. 

"  It  contains  character-drawing  which  places  it  much  above  the  average  love  story,  and 
makes  the  reading  of  it  worth  while.  It  is  a  fine  study  of  a  normally-selfish  man.  There  is 
humor  in  it,  and  sustained  interest.'' — Hufkalo  Express. 


The 
.    A 


A  MORAL  DILEMMA. 

By    ANNIE     M.     THOMPSON. 


Crown  8vo,  Cloth,  $1.00. 


"  We  have  in  this  most  delightful  volume  ...  a  new  novel  by  a  new  author.  The 
title  is  happily  chosen,  the  plot  is  thrillingly  interesting,  its  development  is  unusually  artistic, 
the  style  is  exciptionally  pure,  the  descriptions  are  graphic.  In  short  we  have  one  of  the 
best  of  recent  novels,  and  the  author  gives  great  promise." — lies  ton  Tkavkller. 

"  A  novel  of  rare  beauty  and  absorbing  interest,  Its  plot,  which  is  constructed  with 
great  skill,  is  decidedly  unconventional  in  its  devekpment,  and  its  denouement,  although 
unanticipated  until  near  its  climax,  rtally  comes  as  an  agreeable  surprise.  ...  As  a 
literary  work,  'A  Moral  Dilemma'  will  t.-ike  high  rank.'' — Boston  Home  Journal. 

"The  story  is  well  written  and  gives  promise  of  the  development  of  a  writer  who  will 
take  place  among  the  ranks  of  those  of  her  sex  who  are  supplying  what  is  much  needed  at 
this  time — entertaining,  wholesome  literature." — Yale  Coukant. 

"The  author  writes  with  vigor  and  earnestness,  and  the  book  is  one  of  interest  and 
power." — Public  Opinion. 

"  The  story  is  strongly  told."—  Indkpendent. 

"  A  strong  story  which  leaves  the  reader  better  for  the  perusal.  A  touchlight,  as 
Barrie's  carries  one  through  the  successive  scenes,  which  are  fraught  with  deep  interest." 

—Public  Ledger. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  00.,  15  EAST  16th  STREET,  NEW  YORK. 


SWEETHEART   GWEN. 

A   WELSH    IDYLL. 
By  WILLIAM   TIRLHUCK, 

AUTIIOK   OF   "UORUIK,"    "  ST.    MARGAUltT,"  BTC. 


Crown  8vo,  Cioth,  Ornamental,  $1.00. 


"Very  charming  in  its  depiction  of  a  simple  country  life  giving  several  piquant  studies 
of  quiint  and  attractive  cliaracter,  and  not  wanting  in  tlie  flavor  of  that  romance  which  all 
good  novels  must  possess— the  romance  of  love.  .  .  .  The  book  is  written  with  knowl- 
edge and  power,  and  has  the  idyllic  flavor." — 1'oston  Beacon. 

"  It  is  an  idyll,  a  lovely  one.  conceived  hy  some  one  whose  childhood  has  been  happily 
impressed  on  liini.  .  .  .  The  reader  lives  amid  the  pastures  and  the  orchards  of 
Ty-Cremed,  and  cats  the  brown  bread  and  drinks  the  milk  there,  and  Auntie  Owen,  with  her 
white  teeth,  cracks  filberts  for  him.  I'his  sweet,  impulsive  woman,  with  her  blue  eyes  and  her 
russet  hair,  bewitches  yon,  as  she  does  her  little  nephew,  Martin,  Mr.  Tirebiu  kN  literary 
faculties  are  of  an  exceptional  kind.  Those  who  love  to  reail  of  child  life  will  find  here  a 
perfect  pic  tire.      J'hi  re  is,  however,  much  more  than  this."— N    Y.  Timks. 

"  It  is  a  vigjoiously  told  st(  ry  of  rural  and  child-life  in  Wales,  and  most  tenderly,  imauina- 
tively,  simply,  it  is  done  .  .  .  has  humor,  pathos,  fancy,  courage,  deep  human  feeling, 
and  admirable  descriptive  power." — Pkoviuknck  Jouknai,. 

"This  is  a  di  lightful  romance  ...  a  charming  description  of  .Welsh  country  life, 
with  quaint  and  picturesque  studies." — Boston  Tkavii.lkr. 


DORRIE. 

By   WILLIAM    TIREBUCK, 

AUTHOR   OF    "ST.    MARGARET,"    "  SWEBTHEART  GWEN,"  ETC. 


Second  Edition.    Crown  8vo,  Cloth,  $1.50. 


"  A  really  notable  novel.  Dramatic  and  profoundly  pathetic.  A  psychological  study  of 
great  value.' — (Jraihic. 

"Mr.  Tirebuck  is  a  novelist  of  undoubted  courage  and  fcrtiliijy  of  imagination.  The 
story  is  interesting  beyond  all  question.     He  unquestionably  knows  now  to  draw  a  picture." 

— Athen^cum. 
"  '  Dorrie '  is  an  extremely  touchinsi  and  realistic  picture  of  Liverpool  life,     Mr.  Tirebuck 
writes  vigorously,  and  his  story  is  certainly  one  of  profound  human  interest." 

— G.  Barnett  Smith,  in   The  Academy. 

"Mr  Tirebuck  has  the  root  of  the  matter  in  him.  'Dorrie'  is  really  a  strong  piece  of 
work — a  dei:idcdly  interesting  story."— Stkctator. 

"Mr.  Tirebuck  has  a  real  gift  of  sto;  y-telling  to  begin  with.  And  he  has  other  greater 
qualities  than  that.  .  .  .  His  latest  novel  possesses  a  bro.id  human  interest  as  a  really 
imaginative  study  of  life.''— Richard  Lk  Galliknne,  in  The  Star. 

"This  story  possrsses  unusual  powers  of  attraction,  and  gives  unmistakable  evidence  of 
genius,"— Manchkstku  Examiner.    ~ 

"  She  (Dorrie)  seems  to  myself  the  most  absolutely  original,  and,  in  her  way,  the  most 
taking  figure  in  recent  fiction.  She  is  unique.  To  one  reader  at  least  she  remains  among 
the  friends  of  fiction,  the  beloved  of  dreams." — Andrew  Lang,  At  the  Sign  of  the  Ship. 


LONGMANS,  aREEN,  &  00.,  15  EAST  16th  STREET,  NEW  YORK. 


iiant  studies 
ICC  which  all 
wiih  kiiuwl- 

teen  happily 
orchards  of 
ven,  with  her 
eyes  ami  her 
ak's  literary 
1  find  here  a 

rly,  imaeina- 
man  feeling, 

country  life, 


ical  study  of 

lation.  The 
v  a  picture," 

rilliN^UM, 

\fU.  Tircbuck 

A  cadeiiiy. 
•ong  piece  of 

Dther  greater 
t  as  a  really 

;  evidence  of 

»y,  the  most 
fiains  among 
the  Ship. 


^  TOBK, 


ii 


